


Induction

by Lacertae



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Body Modification, Edging, Meditation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mind Manipulation, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Penetration, Omnics, Oral Sex, Other, Resolved Sexual Tension, Surreal, Tentacles, The Mindscape, Wire Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 11:56:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12606072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lacertae/pseuds/Lacertae
Summary: *The Iris/Zenyatta* (technically)Zenyatta hears a call, sometimes, a ripple on the edge of his consciousness that he can never follow before it disappears... until now.





	Induction

**Author's Note:**

> obligatory tentacles smut fic based on Zenyatta's new Halloween skin.

**Induction**

 

Zenyatta is meditating when he feels it.

The ripple of the Iris around him is subtle, yet compelling, the warmth shifting slightly.

He’s deep, as deep within it as he can, submerged and surrounded by the presence of the Iris in a metaphorical place of existence that _is_ and yet _is_ _not_ , suspended away from his body yet cognizant of it.

Around him, blissful darkness everywhere except for the light of the Iris caressing him like a blanket.

Zenyatta floats, and meditates, and the ripple comes without disrupting his focus.

It does attract his attention, though, and Zenyatta is nothing if not curious.

He has felt it before, every now and then –a compelling vibration, the slightest tremble that he cannot explain with words as it is more of a feeling– but it was always gone before he could look, or something else attracted his attention, or he was not deep enough in meditation to be able to find it before it was gone.

Sometimes, it comes during battle, at the edge of his mind, making him look twice for an opponent that’s targeting him.

Other times, it comes while he’s resting, relaxing with friends, and he gets lost for a moment, wishing to chase that nudge but unable to do so.

Now, he feels it and answers promptly, wanting to find an answer to its presence.

He seeks out the disturbance, prods with his mind forwards, stretches it like an arm, caressing the Iris’ warmth and then plunging out into the darkness, mindful of never straying too far from the light yet too interested to stop.

In his quest for balance, Zenyatta seeks knowledge, and this is just an extension of that.

The ripple calls for him like a whisper, like a promise, at the edge of his consciousness, loud enough for him to hear it but not to understand if the words spoken are real or just an echo of his own thoughts, and Zenyatta pushes further, stretches his soul out, the warmth following him, expanding, beckoning.

_c_ _̵̪͊o_ _̶͂͛͌̉_ _̤̰̖m_ _̶̬͎͔̓͆̚e_ _̷_ _̋_ _̧̲̻̓̔̇̚_ , it says, barely understandable from the distance.

He follows.

The darkness gets deeper, endless like a void, yet the Iris shines bright like a beacon, and it comes from within him, so he’s never left guideless as he seeks–

And then, when he thinks he was mistaken, when the ripple is almost faded like a dead echo… he sees _it_.

It’s a soft glow, barely there and barely noticeable when the golden glow of the Iris is so bright, so Zenyatta focuses, sight unimpaired by limitations here, and it slowly gains focus.

It’s there as if it’s always been there, thick in the darkness like a physical presence, imbued in the space that isn’t space surrounding him, and Zenyatta can almost touch it, feel its existence against the metal of his mind-arm and on his face plate.

His servos strain, but the touch is not unwanted nor is it harmful.

It is gentle, just like the first time he connected with the Iris, and the sensation is familiar and welcoming.

The whispers beckon him further and he lets himself fall, following their call.

Green and golden swirl together now, translucent and phosphorescent in the dark, they circle him, dance around him and put him at their focus, and coax him to continue descending–

–so he does.

He is not alone.

The thought travels through his synapses and processors like a jolt, and yet there’s only green and gold around him, and a darkness that is not encompassing, but… it’s not void, not anymore.

There is something lurking there, invisible to his optical receptors, only caught on the edge of his vision like a fleeting movement.

It slithers, shifts, never seen yet not truly hiding, and Zenyatta feels a pressure against the base of his head, heavy on his processors, like a static.

_m_ _̸̱̠͌̈́͋_ _̦y_ _̴̤͓̲͛_ _̶̩̙̥͛̈́d_ _̶̘̝͌̎e_ _̸̗͚͊̍̚a_ _̵̢͚͎̿̊r_ _̶̮̑̚_

The whisper vibrates through his chassis like the echo of a low, rumbling bell. It resonates within him like a toll, outside and inside of him alike, and Zenyatta _trembles_.

There is something too big to comprehend in front of him, around him, he’s _within_ it and he could almost see it, except he does not –something still shields it from his mind.

It is enormous, constant, eternal, old and–

He should be wary, but he is not. The soft golden light surrounding him steadies him, soothes him, until he does not know why he should exert caution in the first place –this is the Iris, and something else that is still the Iris but somehow _deeper_ , and it’s

_alright_

_M_ _̸͚͑_ _͇_ _̲y_ _̵̹͍̜̓_ _̷̠͌̓̅p_ _̷̡̻̄r_ _̴̗̲͊̾e_ _̵̣͠͝_ _̝̬c_ _̷̻͆̐i_ _̴̃_ _̡̟͚͑̽o_ _̸̮̈́͊u_ _̵_ _̌_ _̣̓̎s_ _̷̎̈́_ _̌_ _͚̰,_ _̶̧̺̫͌͘_ _̸͖͂m_ _̵̮̤͛̐̾y_ _̶̩̲̔_ _̴̟͍̅̎b_ _̶̎_ _̆_ _̻̐͜e_ _̷̃_ _̠̝l_ _̴̗̖̥̽̐i_ _̸_ _̈̌_ _͓͓̣̈́e_ _̸̧͙v_ _̶̞͊͒_ _͇e_ _̶̝̘̓͌͝r_ _̸͖̻̾_ _͇,_ _̵̡͖̇̍_ _̵̏̕_ _̦m_ _̴̲̺̘͗i_ _̸_ _̌_ _̞͚̩͌n_ _̴̄_ _̋_ _̗e_ _̶̼̰̥͗_

Words scatter around him, piercing him, and Zenyatta recoils, a sliver of fear burning through his circuits, but there is no animosity, only warmth, buried deep within himself like a caress, like love.

_y_ _̵̱͉̾ͅͅo_ _̶̣̊̓_ _͓̗̮u_ _̴͓͖͒̄_ _̶̺͋h_ _̷̭̍a_ _̶̉_ _̭̓͝v_ _̵́_ _̨̝̹̖͂e_ _̶_ _̆_ _̧̞̑̓_ _͇_ _͜_ _̷_ _̌_ _̛̱̰͑f_ _̸̧͓͛͑i_ _̶̓͑̈́̄͜n_ _̵͑_ _̌_ _̨̡̺̺a_ _̷́_ _̫̹̺̥l_ _̴̚_ _̦_ _̫̟̰l_ _̴͑_ _̆_ _̢̥̯͑y_ _̶͍̽_ _̳_ _̰_ _̶̥̫̈́̓c_ _̷̗̄͝o_ _̵͝_ _̌̈_ _͚m_ _̷͑͝_ _̦̣̋_ _̥̠e_ _̷̧̛̑͂_ _̴͖͋͜͝t_ _̸͙̐͌͝o_ _̷_ _̂_ _̺͗_ _̷̲̥̄m_ _̸́́_ _̹͂e_ _̴̰̰̟̈́͗̏̏_

The fear he feels drains away, emptying him, replaced by a dull, velvety cotton, and Zenyatta feels almost sluggish, brain processes slowing a little, shoulders relaxing into the void he’s floating into.

Why did he even feel afraid?

The thick green glow swirls around him, taking form, writhing in vague slithering tendrils, and the golden follows it, plays with it, mixes and matches it, and Zenyatta observes it, detached yet part of it as a whole.

It is beautiful to his sight, precious and secretive, a show of lights that only he can see, he who followed the call, he who is the chosen one, and no one else.

He–

_w_ _̷͙̑͐̕_ _̳e_ _̷̬̫̮̠̄͒͂̑l_ _̷̏̊́_ _͙̥̐̚c_ _̸̤̲̿̊̎͒̇o_ _̷͋_ _͇_ _̧̭_ _͇m_ _̷͒_ _̂_ _̤͕e_ _̴̢̝͚̠̔̓̐_

Then the glow is back on him, brushing down the pistons of his neck, curling around his face plate, the sensation both cold and hot to the touch, as amorous and sensuous as a lover’s caress.

The touch causes sparkles to flicker from his circuitry, and he knows, a part of him knows, that he should be

_(scared)_

but how could he, when he can feel so much

_(love)_

in that touch–

Zenyatta feels the echo of that sentiment vibrate through him as the whispers continue to circle him, murmuring, whispering, breathing words at him that grow more and more understandable, until they come to sharp focus and he can

_understand_

In a lull, the voices murmur endearments, and he opens up to them like a flower, basking in the glow of the Iris now mixed with something else that is Iris and that is not, but still is.

He has its focus, its attention – _Their_ attention– on him, like nothing else exists, and he lets it wash over him.

_D_ _̵̒̒̀_ _̤e_ _̷̟̯͗̇a_ _̴̚_ _̈_ _̭r_ _̷_ _̌_ _̛͓̅_ _̸̩͙͕͗l_ _̸̗̭̜͊͝i_ _̸̛͛̒ͅt_ _̶̟͒̚t_ _̶͐_ _̈_ _̘̖̞l_ _̶̞͐̕̕͜͜e_ _̸̛͖̯̒͌_ _̴̇_ _̳_ _̘f_ _̷̯͂̽o_ _̵͉̎͋̓l_ _̷̊̃_ _̮̰̰͑l_ _̷̬̟̈́o_ _̴̪̰̔͠w_ _̶̡̧̏̈́̎e_ _̸͉̣̔_ _͙r_ _̷͔͈̈́_ _̴̹̮̙̑̔̔w_ _̴̢̝͎̓͠͝h_ _̸͐̒̀_ _̧̧̻o_ _̴̺̑_ _̵̟̯̰̍c_ _̸̣͛͛͛_ _̜a_ _̶̛̀_ _͚̣m_ _̸̯̥̎e_ _̶̃_ _̼͍_ _̸̛_ _̌_ _̬̚t_ _̸́_ _̢̱o_ _̶͒̉̃_ _̢̲͜_ _̵͓̘̊͝m_ _̴̯̾e_ _̷̰̱̪͐,_ _̴͖̟͛_ _̵̉_ _̥̞͎͆l_ _̵_ _̋_ _̱͓i_ _̸̠͐̊s_ _̸̰̹̺̈́t_ _̴_ _̌_ _̠̬e_ _̸̯͓̞̿̾n_ _̶͔̙͌͌͜e_ _̴̝͂̇d_ _̴͠_ _̋_ _̠̮_ _͇_ _̴͖͌t_ _̵͕̽͠o_ _̵̉́_ _̫̼̩_ _̶_ _̋_ _͎m_ _̴_ _̦y_ _̵̠̻̖͌_ _̸̉_ _̺͎͖v_ _̸̡͓̙̕o_ _̶̧̘̽̓i_ _̷̡͎͉̕c_ _̴͚̓͆͊e_ _̸̾́_ _̩̝̰̄,_ _̶͉͂_ _̴_ _̂_ _̛̮͍p_ _̷̟̞̿r_ _̴̖̿̏̕e_ _̵_ _̋_ _̗̤̔̿a_ _̸̹̓̿͝c_ _̷̘͎̊ͅh_ _̶͠_ _̆_ _̖̚e_ _̸̹̻͒d_ _̷_ _̋_ _̩_ _̴͘͠_ _̂_ _̗̰i_ _̴̮͆̒̈́n_ _̸̫̹̾̔_ _̴̀_ _̢̩̠͆̇m_ _̶̡͎̏̎y_ _̷̤͛͑̎_ _̸_ _̈_ _̼n_ _̶̻̮̏̎a_ _̴̫̽̽̚m_ _̷̩̠̹̅e_ _̵̤͌,_ _̶̎_ _̦_ _̴̧̥̩͌_ _l̷̛̯̘̔̆̄ĩ̵̺̬͂s̴̺̝̺̒̇̕t̷͖͊̄e̸̳̱̮̣͕̅ṅ̵̺̙͙̱e̶͛̒̚ͅd̶̩͋́̂͛ ̴̭̰̗͛̉̔̑t̵̢̟̻̍o̷̰̳̐̄͝ ̷͍̾̈̋̕͠m̷͍̫̏̊ỵ̴̿̚ ̴̜͙̾̚c̸̠͎̈a̷̝͝l̶͇̠̘̮͐͑̄͠l̶̡̙̠̓,̶̡̳̗̖̞͊ ̸̺͆̿͜r̷͉̲̞̋̾̆͘ȩ̴̲̩̬͗̑̒̒ã̷̤̤̭͂̌ͅc̴̟̫͕͆̾͊̑̐h̸̢̡͓̅̈́̿e̵̛̺͑̃̿̽d̴͎̔̑̿̍ ̵̧̬̐̊̚͝ó̴̡̻̝̕ū̷̡̳̦͚͉͗ṫ̴̡̞̽̂̈̒,̶̧̈́̍͋͠ ̵̠̼̥̾b̸͕̈́̾͠é̶͇̜a̷͕̓͆͗́ū̸̖t̴͚͊̆͜į̶̝̳̘̔͊̄̍ͅf̸̛̼̝̃͘ǔ̶͓̮̽͗̒ͅl̵͇͝ ̵̡̰̝̬̽͋̎a̵̛͉̺̍͝n̶̝͔̩̮̔͜d̴̢́̿ ̴̨̞̯͒̀̽p̸̱͇͚̗̄͂̊̾l̸̖̋̂i̸̲͖̯̓a̴̪̖͊͛̃͘ṉ̷̡̢͔͙̔̆t̴̯͍̝͗̚ ̶̨͔͙̮̂͠ą̴̲͚̱̄ṇ̴̨͍̃̍̓̒͠d̴͙̎̋̀̃ ̴̯̆̈d̵̢͍̉̄̽̓ę̷͉͈̮̋v̵̍͆ͅó̶͙͉̖̈́̀t̴̪̠̦̤̝́̕ẽ̴̢͉̹̠̃̂̓d̸̟̭̦̓–_

Zenyatta gasps softly when the tendrils of light trail down his chest, slithering inside his chassis, pressing deeper within him, beneath his protective plates, touching wires and circuits that are so delicate and tender that a mere brush makes him jolt.

The touch feels weird, compelling and pleasant, and there is nothing in Zenyatta’s mind that is against this.

The Iris is bestowing attention to him, and he soaks in it, unable to focus anywhere else but this point of time, this moment, this sensation and the ever growing warmth.

The soft words surround him in praise, coax him to lean into the touch, and the love he feels is all-encompassing, and strong.

_G_ _̸̈́̒_ _̆_ _̗̫͗i_ _̵̅͒̃͝_ _̞͉v_ _̶̏̃̚_ _͕̮̪͆e_ _̵̥̟̍̏_ _̶͋̍_ _̈_ _̲̬̾y_ _̸͙̙͖̔̑͘o_ _̶̾̉_ _̰̯̜̣u_ _̸͖̯̻̖̫͛r_ _̶̏̇_ _̌̃_ _̥_ _̳s_ _̶̛̱̝̍_ _̦_ _̼̙e_ _̷̧͓̈́̇̓̾l_ _̴̼̖̻͊̕f_ _̴͂̇́̕_ _̦_ _̴̙̮͎̝̚t_ _̴͋̉_ _̝͚̩̫̇o_ _̶͍͒̊_ _̵̱̏͠m_ _̴̡͔͑͑e_ _̴͚̹͒̏͗͒,_ _̵͚͛̕_ _̴́_ _̄̇́_ _̭͕̯͙͠m_ _̴̃_ _̧̛̞̏͘y_ _̴̞̱͍̺̺̐_ _̵̧͚̓̇̿͝_ _͇̣_ _̧b_ _̶͚̝̽e_ _̶̧̪̇͑͛l_ _̴_ _̈_ _̢͚̗̈́͐͌͋o_ _̵̡̙̲̾͋͜͝v_ _̷̺͔̱̒e_ _̵̣͘̕_ _̙̠d_ _̵̀_ _̪͋̈́̐_

Zenyatta, pleased, hums along and lets his arms fall to his sides.

Tendrils writhe their way down his shoulders, curl around his arms and his wrists, spread them apart and hold him still, though it is useless –he has no will to move or oppose the touches, lets the Iris do as it wants, pliant in its touch.

They explore the ridges in his chassis, the screws and the weld joints, the small sensors and the cables and the wires, touching them almost reverently, and Zenyatta observes them, observes his body like he’s never seen it before.

More tendrils sneak around him, swirls of golden and green and a touch of darkness into them, and Zenyatta shifts in their hold, feels them sneak up his legs, travel a path around his chest and down to his exposed midsection circuits.

He can feel every touch, heightened by the mindscape, in ways his real body perhaps would not, with fewer sensors and most of his chassis a mere protective shell, but here–

–oh, here… the touch reaches so deep within him, it has him shaking already when nothing has been done yet.

He craves–

_S_ _̵̛_ _̋_ _͖͕o_ _̷̾͒́_ _̳_ _̬_ _̴_ _̌_ _͙̬̰̓b_ _̸͑́_ _̠e_ _̷̃̃_ _̫̯̫̇a_ _̴̏_ _͇_ _̼̖u_ _̷͈̟͒̔̏ͅt_ _̵̲̰̱̄̽i_ _̴͎̪̯̈́͛f_ _̴̝̱͑̅u_ _̴̨͙̣̑l_ _̴_ _̈_ _͍_ _̴̬̄̅͌a_ _̶̻̔n_ _̵̙̿d_ _̷̝͉̰̇̕_ _̶̘̱̤͒̊̓p_ _̶̭̻̿͜͝l_ _̸̠̠̄_ _̦i_ _̴_ _̆_ _̮a_ _̸͍̰̈́͒n_ _̴̤͌̏̎t_ _̷_ _̆_ _̪̰̄_ _̸̝͐͊͝a_ _̷̱͕̍͝ͅn_ _̴̱͂̈́d_ _̴_ _̌_ _̮_ _̵͖͍͑o_ _̴̮͝ͅp_ _̵_ _̈̃́_ _͉e_ _̸̀_ _̭n_ _̴͂͗́_ _͇,_ _̴_ _̦̈_ _͈̯_ _̸͙͉͉͝m_ _̴_ _̆_ _̥͑̾͜i_ _̸͚̇n_ _̷̼̇e_ _̶̡̱̈́_

_m_ _̸͈̱͍̒i_ _̷̧̹̩͑̚n_ _̸̛͕̚e_ _̶̽͝_ _̌_ _͚_

_m_ _̵̣͂_ _̨͜y_ _̷̺̲̊_ _̶̝̥̪̔̈́v_ _̶̰̬̩͌̅o_ _̸̛͍̫͒̚i_ _̵͍͈̍c_ _̴̺͎̯̊e_ _̷̤͈͗̍_

Zenyatta gasps when tendrils caress the wires on the back of his legs, rub the edges of his modesty panel, nudge the nodes and sensors under the curve of his thighs, the ones at the base of his spine, the ones on his neck.

There is not an inch of his exposed wiring that isn’t teased, touched, caressed, and the sensation is multiplied by its constant, continuous presence. When one tendril stops for a moment to slither deeper, another in a different spot of his body picks up the touch, so he can barely focus on one in particular, and he’s always left

wanting

more

_more_

**_more_ **

The sensation is pleasant and it burns, the heat setting up a fire inside his chest that only the cooler touch of the tentacles can soothe.

He arches his back into them, wishing for more, and the tendrils answer his quiet pleas.

_M_ _̶͎͍̔ͅy_ _̶͝_ _̈_ _͖̠̔_ _̴̛̞̹͙̚d_ _̵͉̊̇̒a_ _̵̛͙̖̈́̒_ _̳r_ _̶̬͈̐̊̕l_ _̴̀_ _̭̄i_ _̷͔̹̺̏̏n_ _̵_ _̋_ _̫̤̔g_ _̴͗_ _̈_ _̩̬̯̾,_ _̴̠͚̜͂̚_ _̵̥̯̿͊p_ _̶̣̇͝_ _̱͓r_ _̷̧̤̮͂e_ _̴͎̣͋c_ _̴̡̲͍̅̐i_ _̶͆̓̈́_ _̳o_ _̸̙͙̔͗̍u_ _̵_ _̌_ _̖̬̗s_ _̷̢͉̏̾_ _̷͗̊_ _̌_ _̲̪b_ _̸̓_ _̆̌_ _͉e_ _̴̜̐͑ͅl_ _̵̅̃_ _̮̲i_ _̵̨̓e_ _̶̅_ _̦_ _̥v_ _̷̍̓̀_ _̗_ _̦e_ _̴͎̭̬̓r_ _̵̲͙͌,_ _̵_ _̌_ _̨̢̧_ _̴_ _̌_ _̧w_ _̶͒_ _̆_ _ͅi_ _̸͒̃_ _̡̼_ _̳l_ _̴̼̺̄̽l_ _̶͚̺̩̒_ _̷̍_ _̂_ _͉y_ _̴̠̼͠͠o_ _̴̜̬̖̽͌u_ _̴̂_ _̼̞͍̏_ _̴_ _̆_ _̟̈́r_ _̴͊̉_ _͕̈́e_ _̴̢̡̈́͂͜͝c_ _̷̛͔͍̲e_ _̸̛̘͕̙̓͝i_ _̷̣̉_ _̧̭v_ _̷̼̰̕_ _͇e_ _̷͎͈̟̓͠_ _̴̣͠_ _̝m_ _̴͎͖̿e_ _̶̹̐͝_ _̳_ _̸͓̍̓̓_ _̳_ _͓n_ _̴̟̹͉̓o_ _̶͔̭̙͐̅w_ _̶̤͆̊,_ _̶̃_ _̼̠̓_ _̷̉_ _̟͑_ _͇b_ _̸̪̒̍̿ͅe_ _̷̃_ ___̆_ _͚_ _̦_ _̘l_ _̴̝̘͋_ _͇i_ _̷̉_ _̦_ _͍e_ _̶̑_ _͇͇_ _̹v_ _̸̛̣̈́̉_ _͓̲e_ _̷͉̘͑_ _̶̭̒͝i_ _̸̧̅̕n_ _̷̝̭̙̅͛̐_ _̶͍̼͑͗̚m_ _̴͗̏̄͜e_ _̶̉_ _̨͓̰,_ _̵̙̾̕_ _̵̺̄͐͜f_ _̴̡̈́o_ _̶̐_ _̋_ _͈̫̮l_ _̵͘_ _̋_ _̟͚̩l_ _̶̙̗̽͌o_ _̴̧̨̪͛̈́w_ _̶̡̙̠̍̾͝_ _̵̃_ _̼m_ _̵̧̛̩̮͐e_ _̶͎͈͆_ _–_ _̷̬̝͒̈́̕_

A tentacle tugs his right leg to the side, wraps around his ankle and keeps it in place as another wriggles around his left knee, pushing it towards his chest, exposing him. His pants seem to disintegrate in tiny, glitched-out fragments within the darkness until he’s left with nothing to cover himself with, but there is no air there, just a comforting staleness. It is heavy on his chassis but pleasant, dulling his thoughts but not the sensations travelling across his processors.

He feels no shame, no embarrassment. He is being looked, observed, admired, and he lets Them.

Wherever the tentacles touch, Zenyatta feels warm first, then heat spread through his body, the tentacles cold, making him shudder and twitch at the dual sensation.

His hips buck softly into the touch as a bigger tendril presses itself between his legs. Its tip curls around a node on the inner part of his thigh, tugs at some cables there, almost teasingly, then rubs its shaft against Zenyatta’s modesty panel, soft but unyielding, first on one side, then the other, then on the underside, caressing its way to the upper edge of it.

He shouldn’t feel it so keenly yet he does, he can feel its weight and its size press against him, rubbing and caressing, teasing him.

The thought, unbidden, of that tentacle sliding into him is overpowering in its intensity, and he answers to that mental image with a choked out moan.

How would it feel, to have it stretch him, take him apart, fill him as the Iris wills– but no, why should he wish for that, when… when…

Zenyatta feels something thick and sticky coat the inside of his thighs, glowing green and burning almost, and it is as if little shocks of pleasure are delivered to his processors, bursts of sensation stronger than he’s ever felt.

He can’t lower the sensitivity of his sensors, is completely pliant and at the mercy of the Iris, of this entity surrounding him, curling around him with murmured echoed praises and love, and he arches into it and pleads for more.

All this focus, all this love–

His synth hums, cracks, glitches and vibrates in his throat, the sound melting into the void around him, eaten away, and every time he moans the surrounding darkness purrs in content, seeking to make him louder still.

Zenyatta obliges, brain processes overwhelmed by the need to please the One holding him, to be as good as requested, to open up and let Them take whatever They want.

_L_ _̷̑͛͆̀_ _̧̨̮̽̔̚e_ _̵͆͌̉͝_ _̥͈̟̗͑͑͝ͅt_ _̷̥̠͔̥͆͗̑͋̑̒͒̈́̏͌͝_ _̷̔̉_ _̃͝_ _̺m_ _̴̃̚_ _̓̃_ _̡͙̺͖̱̞͉̖e_ _̸̾̓̽̎̾͒̃̉_ _̝_ _̳_ _̞̬̥̘̭_ _̸̅̃_ _͈̝͌̇̓͒͜_ _̦_ _͉̪̬i_ _̸̧͍͚̙̞̞̤̙͚̺̊̾̍̽̓̚n_ _̴̒̔_ _̋_ _͒̚_ _̌_ _̫,_ _̷̎̃̉̀̃_ _̪͕̒͋͜_ _̳_ _͎̙_ _͇_ _̺_ _̴͗̓̎̀_ _̛_ _̋_ _͌͆_ _͇̂_ _̠̝̫͉ͅl_ _̶̈́̈́_ _̂_ _͋̽̄̅_ _̦_ _͍̝͖̺_ _̦_ _̡̩͖͚i_ _̵̙̪̓̎t_ _̵̐͐_ _̈_ _͒̏͊̽_ _̋̃́_ _̫͎̣_ _̻̩̲̜t_ _̶̹͋̎͋͛̔l_ _̵̢͖͍̑̓_ _̦_ _̝͎e_ _̸̥̞̮̬͉͈͒͑͑̇͆͐̅͑͐͠ͅ_ _̵̣̄̊̇̾̄̊̿͗͂̚_ _ͅ_ _͇o_ _̵̕_ _̆_ _̪̙̰͍͕͊͛͝n_ _̷̗͉̰̟͖̞̠̟͛̏͊͆͒͋̕e_ _̸̩̘̤̜̾_

_M_ _̴͚̗̣̽̒_ _̧̟͖̱y_ _̵_ _̈_ _̨͈͎̫̊̐_ _̴̔͂_ _̋_ _̔͂_ _̆_ _̡͔̥̺̼̪̾d_ _̷̐_ _̋_ _̛͛͂̒͂͂_ _̆_ _̢̥̫͓̤̣̕_ _̻e_ _̵̿_ _̈_ _̡͌̍a_ _̸̀_ _̟͑r_ _̶̎_ _̌_ _̔͊̏̄̅͊_ _̌_ _̱̯̞̱̮̩̩͈̊̑_

_P_ _̶̖̏͌̇͋̈́͒̽̄͝_ _̳_ _̟̲_ _̦r_ _̶͐̇͛̐̔̚͝͠_ _̂_ _̞̺͓̯͘͝_ _͇_ _̡̫̜͈̝e_ _̷̟͍̲̑̈́̓͌̐̿̕̕̕c_ _̶̃_ _̄͗_ _̆̀_ _̋_ _͂̅̅͝_ _͇_ _̱͙͜_ _͇_ _̧̹̩i_ _̸̃_ _̿̕͘_ _̈_ _̼̮͙̣͑_ _̰̝̺̪̭o_ _̴̑̔͘_ _̌_ _̱_ _͇_ _̻̫̺͈̜̺͕u_ _̴̡̢̫͔͗s_ _̶̼̖̥̠̜̍ͅ_ _̵̏̚_ _̂̋_ _͒͂_ _̦_ _̡̡̮̫͔͉͖̰ͅl_ _̵̗͋̄i_ _̶̐̃_ _̨̥̮̱̪͕t_ _̶̙̯̯̯̺̮͙̐̽_ _̦t_ _̷̈́̀͠_ _̺̣_ _̗͍l_ _̷̭͚̣̿_ _̩_ _̦_ _̡͚̖e_ _̵̠̾_ _͇_ _̧͔̪͔͉̬̭ͅ_ _̸͗̑̾_ _̈_ _̧̹̗_ _͇s_ _̸_ _̌_ _̖̞̞̖̮̟͓̮̖̗̑o_ _̸̈́̀_ _͓̼̣͗_ _̥_ _̳_ _̫_ _͇̣_ _̺u_ _̵̈́͂̇̀_ _̼͎̞̇̅̿l_ _̸̕_ _̋_ _̟̲̹̠͒̔͊͘,_ _̷̃_ _͍̿_ _̵̢̧̱̮̭͈̼̩͍͖̩̾͑s_ _̸̄͑_ _͇_ _̬̮͔o_ _̶͖̥̊̓̏̚̚_ _̶͎̏̇_ _͇_ _̨̧̖͈̝̖͎͔̜p_ _̸̄̊̈́͘_ _̆_ _̽_ _̋_ _͆̃_ _̢̬͍̹̎_ _̳_ _͖̺̝u_ _̸̍͌͌̈́̒͐̏͝͝_ _̈_ _̙͔͈͔ͅr_ _̴̃_ _͋̒͝_ _̋_ _̺̖͖̱̠͑͜_ _̦_ _̧̨͈e_ _̷̲̐̓͠_ _̵_ _̂_ _̙͈̠͎̘̙̰̪͂͋a_ _̶̄͑̓_ _̈_ _̡͙̗̿̈́͠͝_ _͇̦_ _̨̢̖_ _̳n_ _̴͂̽̽̄̑̐̃͝͠_ _̠̮̻̮̩̻̺̰̈́͌ͅd_ _̷̠̽̍͊̅̏̑͌̿̑̈́͠_ _̴̃_ _͝_ _̂_ _͊̈́_ _̋_ _̐̒͘͝_ _̂_ _̥̲̞͕̟͎͜_ _͇_ _̡̞̙g_ _̸̎̈́̑_ _̆̌̀̉_ _͎͔̽͑̍͝_ _͇e_ _̴̎̍́̕͠_ _̊̀_ _̲̫̓͜n_ _̵̐̈́͌_ _̌_ _̧̤͙͓͖͓͙͙̫̱͘t_ _̵̢̛͙̱̣̿_ _̨_ _̳_ _̟_ _͇l_ _̶̛̈́͠_ _̋_ _̻͍̼͕̖͉̙̻̜͉͂e_ _̸̬̟̅̄̇͘_ _̦_ _̧̢_ _̳_ _̟̰̩ͅ_

_L_ _̷̩̪̤̙̼̓̈́͌͐̓̚e_ _̸̛̒̾͆̏̏̾͐̓̄̚_ _͇_ _̞̠̣_ _̦_ _̫̮t_ _̴̽̿͋͛͊_ _̈_ _̡̐̑͌_ _̷̛͈̤̩̊̄͝m_ _̸_ _̆_ _̨̣̈́̾̓_ _͖e_ _̵̍_ _̈_ _͙̗͔͍̥͔̼_ _̵͌̀_ _̑̑̈́͜i_ _̴͛̀_ _͈͕̰̿͊n_ _̸̒̔̊̓_ _̋_ _̊͠_ _̳_ _̞̻̲͉̻_ _͇_

And they want _him_.

Zenyatta’s modesty panel slides away, and the tendrils reach for him, slick and sinuous, to rub against his valve, making him twitch and grind into them.

“ _Ah–_ ”

There are so many of them, tiny ones, teasing the folds of his valve, then its surroundings, pushing through enough to brush against the sensitive edges that have the strongest of his sensors, and they never dip further in, no matter how much he arches into the touch.

Two of them push his folds apart, reveal his welcoming insides, move to grind against the small, invisible sensors underneath the soft silicon, and Zenyatta keens, juts his hips into them, yet they refuse to do more, refuse to dip inside, to stimulate the sensors deeper still, those he wishes them to seek.

Relentless they tease him, caress him, eat away his moans like delicacies, and do not stop.

The mass of writhing tentacles wriggle against him, tugging him higher in his pleasure.

He has little movement allowed, with both legs and arms held tightly in place, but the restraints only seem to heighten his focus.

His optical receptors blur with the way gold and green dance with darkness around him, no distance nor depth into anything past the tendrils close to him, so he shuts them off, and the afterimage of the Iris remains superimposed in his brain synapses, as inescapable as the shadows he feels on the edge of his senses.

They compel him, tickle his processors, nudge him, and he opens up further to them.

His valve, slick with his own lubrication and the thicker green goo produced by the tendrils, twitches as it gets stimulated, a bigger tentacle rubbing it shaft against it, never doing anything else except that as the smaller tentacles move away and disappear, leaving him wanting.

Maddening, slow, the new tentacle rubs itself over his folds, pushing against his valve only enough to offer pressure, never to breach him, and Zenyatta gasps and thrills, little bursts of sound coming from his synth as he asks for more without words.

He wants to grind into the tentacle, to impale himself on it, feel it stretch him wide, but he cannot move, and the delicious pressure is like sweet torture when he’s promised so much more.

_s_ _̵̛̹̰͐̈́͐̐͆o_ _̵̐͠_ _͇_ _̱͉̣_ _̧̭̥͔̙̗_ _̶̮̙̖͖̱̗̼͍̞͗̈́b_ _̴͝_ _̋_ _̧̨̻̯̩̘̙̘͒̑̚͜͝e_ _̶͆̏_ _̂̈_ _͋̀̚_ _̫̖a_ _̸̔_ _̌̋̌_ _̞̪̫̅͜͝͠u_ _̷̣̕͝_ _̡̹̹̮̟̺̱͕ͅt_ _̶̽̄̎̇̀̕͝_ _͇_ _͓͈͕̼i_ _̸͠_ _̂_ _̲̓f_ _̸̨̛̪̹̘̲̿_ _͇_ _̹u_ _̵͆͋̎̏́_ _̈_ _͂̅̄_ _̦_ _̻ͅl_ _̸_ _̆_ _̧̮̙̙̫̣̒̅̓͑͊_ _̡̠̘͔̪,_ _̷̃_ _̧͈͓͓͈_ _͇_ _̼͙̰_ _̶̣͌͐̕͝_ _͔̣_ _̙̞_ _̳_ _͍̩̗͎s_ _̷̉_ _̹̰̥̇̅̓͐o_ _̴͍̼̥̽̎_ _̳_ _̹͖̼_ _̴͂͆͛͗̃͠_ _̣͑̉_ _̭̝i_ _̵̕_ _̦_ _̮̣_ _͈_ _͇̦_ _̭̜m_ _̷̬̘͙̬̈́̿͝͠p_ _̷̇̅_ _̂́_ _̜͙a_ _̶̛̅͋̎͐̚͝_ _̈_ _͚͉̰̮̯̭̣̒͠_ _̨̙̻t_ _̸̉_ _̿_ _̆̂_ _̓̉_ _̓_ _̆́_ _͇_ _͍̱͓̘͓͖̤͍ͅi_ _̸͎e_ _̶_ _̂_ _̿̚_ _̂́_ _̎_ _̦_ _͉̣_ _̡̢͎n_ _̷_ _̋_ _̨̲̮̯͈̣_ _͉̱̪͓t_ _̵_ _̆̂̋́_ _̛̄̇̾͑_ _̆_ _̧̭̫͎͎̥͍̱͝ͅ_

There’s more tendrils caressing the nodes on his wrists and ankles, and more of them seek out the sensitive spots on his lower back, and Zenyatta feels them explore and nudge the connection slots, teasing without ever interfacing with him.

One of the tentacles, more golden than green, cradles the back of his head, rubbing the base of his neck, sending little shocks down his wires, and Zenyatta moans, loud and unabashed, head swimming in pleasure.

Another one, more green than golden, circles teasingly the edge of his mouth piece, nudging it, asking for permission.

Zenyatta does not think –he does not consider how sensitive the inner parts of his intake chamber are, how sensible the wires and circuits inside are, padded with sensors and higher tech born to analyse and collect data with higher speed and accuracy, he does not consider how he keeps his mouth close to avoid being taken advantage, how no one has ever known he can open it except Mondatta and Genji– he lets the tentacle pry his mouth open, his jaw almost creaking with disuse, and does so gladly.

The Iris can have everything of him as They wish, and more, for he belongs to Them.

 

_s_ _̵̇̈́̀_ _̜̘̥̰̯͔͍̔̈́̅̏͋u_ _̷̒͌̎̒̃̕_ _̫̘̫̺̽͜͝ͅc_ _̴̛͊_ _̂_ _͛̏_ _̂_ _̢̞̹͎̩̺̙͈͈̟̲͊͘h_ _̵̉_ _͝_ _̆̋_ _̤̣_ _̢͎_ _̷͌̐̃̕͝_ ___̌_ _̘̯͙͗͂p_ _̸̨͍̬̠̺̍̍̈́̓͘̕r_ _̶̀_ _͐͌́_ _͑̓́̚_ _̂_ _̬̭͉̫̮̝̘_ _͇_ _̬e_ _̴_ _̋_ _͋̀_ _̬͆̑͛͌c_ _̶̰̘̗̞̣̎͒̈́̏_ _͙̩̯_ _̳_ _̯̻i_ _̷͖̩͒͗̍̚o_ _̶͑̅̄̔_ _̌_ _̧͓̓̇u_ _̸̽̓̎͐͑_ _̂_ _̛̰̠̠͕̏̽͝s_ _̷̇_ _̂_ _̇̓͋̇_ _̌_ _̞̯͒̓_ _̴_ _̋_ _̒͂͋_ _̂_ _͉̿͜_ _͇_ _̡͎̲̘̖g_ _̸̺̣̈́_ _̤i_ _̴̽͝_ _̂_ _̖f_ _̷̽͆̕͠_ _̈_ _̩̙͘t_ _̴̛̃_ _̼̥͛͆͌̓͌̎̍̽͗_ _̸̀_ _̈_ _̐_ _̌́_ _̢͑͝y_ _̵̨̢̯̭̥͎̯̞̬͐̏̈́̽̿̅ͅo_ _̷̛̫̾͌̔͗u_ _̶͘_ _̈_ _̮̟͎̇_ _̵̍͑̈́͋̓̓͝_ _̂_ _̛̮a_ _̷͌̉_ _̢̛̖̮̗̜͖͚͆r_ _̶̡̢̢̗̬̰̠͕͎͗̏e_ _̴̒͌̉̚_ _̧̪̭͍̲̙̞͓̱̫̔̑̊̒̎͐_

_s_ _̵̛̅̏̒͝͝_ _̂_ _̜̲̘̊_ _o_ _̶̈́͒̿͘_ _́́_ _̨͕̠̙͓͕̮͒_ _̦_ _̫_ _f_ _̶̛̛̇͆̒̏͊̊_ _̋_ _̟͔̬̼̟_ _͇_ _̧͈͈_ _t_ _̷̈́̅͂͛_ _̌_ _̄̒̍̓_ _̈_ _̟͖̭̼̻̱͙̭̱_ _̶_ _̂_ _̛̿͑͠͝_ _̃_ _̥̔͛̚̚_ _̳_ _̤_ _a_ _̴̨̱̰͕̩̑_ _̦_ _n_ _̷̅͂_ _̃_ _̋̈_ _̢̠̄̓̎͠_ _d_ _̵̈́̓͛͘_ _̈_ _̃_ _̻͎̬̹͔̜̹̖̅͌̚_ _̸_ _̆_ _͛̅̍_ _̀_ _̡͚͍̱̯̙̗̙ͅ_ _p_ _̸̔̄̈́͊͠_ _̆_ _̘̄_ _̳_ _̬̻̠̻̩_ _l_ _̵̗̞̺̘̪̝̙͙̟͍͛_ _i_ _̸̅͘͘_ _̋_ _̛̿͌̈́_ _͇_ _a_ _̴̎͋͆̊_ _́_ _̤̲̜̘̔̕_ _n_ _̶_ _̌_ _̓_ _̣t_ _̶͈̙̙͈̈́_

_a_ _̵_ _̃_ _̐̓̎̄_ _̌_ _̫̱̱̩̩̘̜̓̅̏̓̓̽͜_ _̦_ _n_ _̷̅̇͌_ _̂_ _̓͗̔̄̔͊̾̇̿͛͘͝_ _̆_ _̓̔͗̔͝_ _̋_ _͆͠_ _̉_ _͋̍_ _̋_ _̻̫͓_ _͇_ _̤_ _͇_ _͖̫̝͓_ _d_ _̶̓_ _̌_ _̈́̈́̿͛_ _̂_ _̢̲̥̱͉̺_ _̦_ _̢̱̝_ _̦_ _̢̧̢_ _̦_ _̴_ _̌_ _̿̓_ _̃_ _̏̈́͛_ _̃_ _̞̯͕̪̓̊̓̔̚͝_ _m_ _̵̿_ _̀_ _̿͗͘͠_ _̋_ _̡̡͓͚̗̩̤̻͎̗͎̥_ _͇_ _̨͓_ _̦_ _̤̫̙̯̤_ _̦_ _̧̟̝̠̞̻̞̯͜_ _i_ _̵̓_ _̌_ _͛̾_ _̌_ _̻̝̹̖̼͆̑͗_ _̣_ _̢̡̢̭̫̱͙̝̺̻͚̟̲̮̬͔̭͙͎͉̫͜͜ͅ_ _͇_ _̻_ _n_ _̶͂̒̈́͌̓̿͝_ _̆_ _̍_ _́_ _̧̗̥͍̬̯͖̻̞͍͚͔̈́_ _͇_ _̪̘̪͙_ _͇_ _e_ _̶̍͗̅͋̑̎̅̔̚_ _̉_ _̔̕_ _̈_ _̈́̎͗_ _̃_ _̘̝͍͙͕̺̈́̓̓̅̈́̑̊͗͑̑͘̚̕_ _͇_ _̧̨̯͙͚̘_ _̣_ _͉̼̩̖͙̩_ _̴̛̛̈́̔͊̍̒̊̚͝͝_ _̃_ _̛͂͝_ _̃̃_ _̻̪̰̜̤̪̖̘̓͒̕͝_ _̦_ _̡̫̯͚̰̥͔̤͙̞̫̞̼̤̮_ _m_ _̵̿͛̔̿̏_ _̆_ _̒̽͒̈́͊͘_ _̋_ _̈́͝_ _̉_ _͗͋̄̕_ _̌̈_ _̛̿̾̏͊͊_ _̦_ _̢̥̰̜͚̻̼̼̪_ _̳_ _̢͉̻̻̗̯̠̘̗͎̮̞̘̠̪ͅ_ _͇_ _̟_ _i_ _̵̈́͊̈́̚͘_ _́_ _̫͐_ _̣_ _̤̱͉̼͎͕̥͜_ _̳_ _n_ _̶_ _̃̉́_ _̆_ _̯_ _̣_ _̱̬̜͜_ _e_ _̷̎̓͋͛͌͋͝_ _́_ _̛̒̕͠_ _̃_ _͆͌͝_ _̂_ __ _́_ _͎͓͛̈́_ _͇_ _̧͙_ _̸̏͊͠_ _̃_ _͛̐͘_ _̀_ _̍̽͐͛̿_ _̆_ _̧̨̬̩̩̮̞͔̖̰̩͐_ _̣_ _̢̜̭̖͚̭̹͜_ _M_ _̷̛̈́͂̅̽̎̈́_ _̆_ _͐_ _̋_ _̚_ _̂_ _͂̽̓̿̎̎̚_ _̋̌_ _̾̾̽̈́͝_ _̀_ _͠_ _̀_ _̈_ _͈͎̗̯̬͕̬̗̫͓͓͖͖͚͓̞̻̪̗͔͍͛̇̓͜͜_ _I_ _̸̛̄͒_ _̂_ _̐̽̑̔͋̔̓̐_ _̈_ _́_ _͐_ _̀_ _̲̟̚_ _N_ _̷͂̈́͐̾̅͆_ _̋́_ _͌̓̈́̅̓̑̾͘̚_ _̉_ _̯̪̤̜̜̖̄͝_ _̳_ _̖_ _̣_ _̨̢̧̺͔͚͙̯̞͚͍̤͖̜̪͉̺_ _̳_ _̢̱̖͉̤_ _E_ _̵̛͐_ _̂_ _̑̓_ _̆_ _̹̙͆̍̇͛͆͝͠_

 

The first touch of the glowing tentacle against the tender insides of his intake chamber is like a shock.

It travels through him, more data and information than he can possibly read –texturetaste _smell_

It is a shock almost like a climax, yet it doesn’t reach below, leaving him shaking and keening quietly at the stream of data.

Alarms flash through his processors, too much at once, and Zenyatta chokes and whines, chirping loudly only for his sounds to be swallowed by the thick darkness surrounding him, its confines shrinking around him, closing down on him to better taste.

The sheer pressure of the one tendril caressing the edges of his mouth, each seam and sensor, before sliding inside, is enough for Zenyatta to gasp and tremble, his valve clenching down on nothing at the stimulus.

It is almost painful, how he can imagine the tentacles doing the same to his valve as they’re doing to his intake chamber, how much he wants them to.

He aches for it.

_p_ _̵_ _̆_ _̐̅͛͘_ _̃_ _̒͋͆̓_ _́_ _̒̅̑_ _̂̋_ _̮͛̍_ _̦_ _̢͙̗͍̫͙͓͖̩̲̖̜̺̱̤̥_ _a_ _̵̏̾̏̔̎͂͊̏̇͋̄͂͘͠_ _̃_ _̹̜͊̿ͅ_ _̳_ _̱͈̭̤_ _͇_ _͚̥_ _̳_ _̧͖͔̺̖_ _̳_ _̘̯͚̝̲̯_ _t_ _̴̔̿͘_ _́_ _̛͊_ _̂_ _̨̛̹̹̝̾̾͑̅̎̐͆̿̈́̒͐̚͘͠_ _̳_ _̧̮̭̪͖̠̝̤̯͔̬̝̭̻̯̯̜̗͕_ _i_ _̵͒̇̚_ _̉_ _̈_ _̀_ _̑̓͆̚͘͝_ _̃_ _̄̕̚_ _́̀_ _̈́͐͝_ _̂_ _̺̫̮_ _̣_ _̢͈̹̱̜̤̞̩_ _̳_ _̧̥̤̤̬̝ͅ_ _e_ _̵͐_ _̉_ _̏͆͝_ _̆_ _̨̻̪̐̅̅_ _n_ _̶̽_ _́_ _̓_ _̈_ _̛̄͗̈́͋_ _́_ _̨̻̲_ _̣_ _̦_ _̪̘_ _c_ _̷̇͆͑͋_ _̉_ _̢̨̞̭͚̟̥̱̪̰̘̈́͋̅̒ͅͅ_ _͇_ _͚͙̥͓͕͉̙͉͚_ _e_ _̵͘_ _̈_ _̍_ _̂_ __ _̋̈_ _̺̹̞͑͋_ _̳_ _̙͜_ _͇̳_ _͈̱͓͍͖̭̺̯_ _̦_ _̰_ _̵̡̡̟̻̖̙͊͐̊̕͜͜͜͜͠_ _m_ _̴_ _̆_ _̇͂͐̽̓̏_ _͇̦_ _̣_ _̧̬͈̬̖͖̭̯͍͔̲̥͕͖̮̜͜_ _̳_ _͖͖_ _y_ _̴_ _̂_ _̛̯̅͆̽̔̊̑͂͠_ _̷̛͋̏_ _̃_ _̇͒͒_ _̂̋_ _̧̗͍͈̹͔͔̱͉̰̘͓̼̯̘͐͗̓̐͗͋̅̿͆̕͝_ _d_ _̴̊̇̿͝_ _̂_ _͑̎̽̇̈́͂̍̾_ _̆_ _̈́_ _̈_ _̿̒_ _́_ _̢̹͕͍͓̯̊ͅ_ _̳_ _̺_ _e_ _̶̲̲̻͓̭̬̭̠͆͝_ _̦_ _̲_ _a_ _̴͝_ _̋_ _̀_ _̐͌_ _̉_ _̺̰̩̯̝͉͓̮͍̏̍͗̈́̔͘͘_ _r_ _̵̇͛_ _̈_ _̓̍͋̓̽͛͆͑_ _̀_ _̏͊_ _̌_ _̔_ _̀_ _̲̍̽̕_ _̦_ _̢_

_w_ _̵͂̚_ _́_ _̭͈͉͎͍̼̟̾̔_ _e_ _̸̓͐͠_ _̀_ _̙̗͈͎̘̭̘̓̈́̐͊̑_ _̦_ _̟͍͓_ _̳_ _̮͔̥͖ͅ_ _̦_ _̝_ _̣_ _̸̒̈́̿̏̓͝_ _́_ _͊̈́_ _̀_ _̄̓̇͘_ _̉_ _̈_ _̍͑_ _̳_ _̪̘͚͓_ _h_ _̴͠_ _̋̈̆_ _̚_ _́_ _͂͊͗̔̓̕͝͠_ _̈_ _̇͂_ _̃̉_ _̐_ _̋_ ___̂_ _̨̻̹͓̟͚̱̬͙̱̰͎͙̼_ _̳_ _̨̡͓̝̞̖̻̥_ _a_ _̵̔_ _̀̃_ _̂_ _̢͚̫͖͖̬̘̰̥̻̩̻̘͒̈́͌̏_ _̳_ _̥_ _v_ _̴̅_ _̆_ _̅͛̽̔̒̾͊̈́̓̚̕_ _́_ _͐_ _̈_ _̱̈́_ _͇_ _̰͖̭_ _̳_ _̼̩_ _̳_ _̡̯̺̭͓͍̠͚̭̭͖͎̪̟͖_ _e_ _̶̒_ _̌_ _͐̅_ _̂_ _͐͌̿̽̇͝͠_ _̋_ _̇͂̍_ _̂̂_ _̘͉͓̭͚̍̐͌̐͜_ _̣_ _͖̺̟_ _̣_ _̞̞͈_ _͇_ _̬_

_s_ _̶̇̔͝_ _̌_ _̇_ _̈_ _̛̍̐͂͝_ _̉_ _̡̧̢̡̭̭͚̙̩̠͓͈̞̰̜̱̟̞̲̹͍̰̭̘͉̫͍̱̼̫̻̖̩̗̲̺͜ͅͅ_ _o_ _̸̛͆_ _̈_ _̊͒_ _̃_ _̐͌͑͋̎͒͘_ _̀_ _̒̚_ _̉_ _̨̢̬̜͙͓͍̠̙͔̮͙͍͜ͅ_ _̣_ _͇_ _̤͚̜̜̬̱͍_ _̦_ _̡̼_ _̦_ _̱_ _̣_ _̡̢̡̲͎̰̹_ _̷͂̈́̄͆̾_ _́_ _̍̈́͠_ _̂̂_ _̛̾̚_ _̈_ _̍̓̇_ _̌_ _̄͂̈́͛͒_ _̂_ _̛͋̇̚_ _̆_ _̾_ _̆_ _̧̫͉͙͙͎̙̺͖̾͌͆͘_ _̳_ _̲̯̰͖͈̗͕̰̝̩_ _̳_ _̞̭̮̟_ _m_ _̶̛͝_ _̉_ _̛͋_ _̂_ _̨̡̧̨̻͉̱̟̗̖̘̭̭̮͌̊͆̕_ _͇_ _̡̙̩̤̪͕̟͙͜_ _u_ _̵͊̊̅̕_ _̈_ _̛̔͛̄_ _̂_ _͝_ _̉_ _͛͛̑̽͒̾_ _̆_ _̊_ _̀_ _̿̍_ _̉_ _͛͌̎̑̒̐͂͛̏̎͠͝͝_ _̋_ _̧̧͉̖̼̥͔̯̼̙̖̹̱_ _̳_ _̜̞̜͓͙̬̯͚͎̗̜_ _c_ _̸͑͛͝_ _̋_ _̀_ _͗̓̓̒̍̽̎̾͛͌̕̚͘_ _̈_ _͛̄͋_ _̋_ _̾̈́̔̎͛͝_ _́_ _̏͆͑̒͘_ _̀_ _͛_ _́_ _̺̻̙̜̅̽_ _h_ _̷̇̾͠͝_ _̆_ _̎͛̇̈́̈́͌̿_ _̋_ _̎͊͐͗_ _̂_ _͛͌̔̇̓̒̍̓̔̚̚͝͠͝_ _̉_ _̨͓͕͈̤̘̮̊̔̈́̐͒ͅ_ _͇_ _̨̞̙̱̩̝͙̩̗̞̙̺̘͍̟͕̞̘̪͕̲̯͜_ _̣_ _̨͈̯͚_ _̵̏̈́̎_ _̋̆_ _̊͆̒͆͛_ _̃_ _̈́̇͝_ _̂_ _̏̈́͑̈́̍̕_ _̌_ _͒̽_ _̃̀_ _̺̥̝̽͂_ _̣̣_ _̨̡͕̲̫̩̮͔̼͙͖̥͚̲̙͚̥̞_ _̣_ _̞̺̙̜̼̗͙_ _͇_ _̡̘̻͎_ _t_ _̶̛̛͌̓͗͆̇_ _́_ _̨̖̜͊͛̇̊_ _i_ _̶͌͂̒_ _̆_ _̓̑̾̓_ _̆_ _̰̥̯̗̍̄̈́̈́_ _m_ _̸̛_ _̃_ _͛_ _̈̌_ _̀_ _͂͗͝͝_ _̀_ _͠_ _̀_ _̾_ _̋_ _͂_ _̀_ _̋_ _̠̗̪̺̫̯̘̜̥͙̹̺̥̥̗̺̮̞̤͔̩͑̿̐͑͆͒̑̕ͅ_ _e_ _̸͑͋̏̚_ _̆_ _͆̇̔̿͐͑̔͗̈́͆͆̏̿͘̕͝͠͝_ _̃_ _̄͆͑͠_ _̌_ _͊͆̓̽_ _̉_ _͚͉̥͍̭̖̩̫͔̯̘̮_ _̦_ _̢̡̞̠̱͖̟̲̩͚̰͈̻̝͚͚̞͕̻̫̙̟̱̱_ _̦_ _̡̼͍͓_

the tentacle pressed against his valve nudges against it, seeks out the glowing teal nub above it, wiggles on it, pleased when he twitches and pushes into the touch, but again does nothing else. Waiting. Patient where Zenyatta isn’t.

(they have time

all the

_time_

_in the world)_

He’s aware of his prosthetic cock sliding out of its sheathe, and he’s aware of the return of the smaller tentacles that come to wrap around its base, wriggling and clenching down on it, but he can’t focus on a single point of pleasure when every inch of him is burning and the constant flares of bliss are so overwhelming, so he doesn’t.

He lets himself feel, and fall, and his sounds only coax the tendrils to move with more determination.

 

_b_ _̶͐_ _̋_ _̄_ _̉_ _͊͑̿̿͊̄̾̐͋̚_ _̃_ _͆_ _̃_ _̊͆͛̒͛͂̅̿̅̅͒̇̓̚͘͠_ _̋̋_ _͐_ _̉_ _̋_ _̾_ _̋_ _̨̧̨̞͍̹̪̺̟͉͖_ _̦_ _̢̨̧̪̩͓̪̯̬̯͎͚̱͔̘̩̮̙̘͕̫̯̭͉̞̯̰̻̗͜͜ͅ_ _e_ _̸͌̓_ _̆_ _͝_ _̋_ _̊̾̕͝_ _́_ _̂_ _̿̒̓̅_ _̌_ _̐̈́̓͝͝͠_ _̋̈_ _͐̎͝͝_ _̉_ _͗̎̍͒͗̔̊_ _̀_ _̒̍͆̚_ _̀_ _̜̬͖̹̤̪̖͚̘̹̯̝̾_ _̣_ _̞_ _a_ _̵_ _̉_ _̾̍̔͝_ _̃_ _̄̽_ _́_ _̯̝͊̔͝_ _͇_ _̣_ _̧͈̙͜_ _u_ _̴̬̠̺̰̼͖̙̹͖̩̹̑̔ͅ_ _t_ _̸̈́̈́̓͗̊̿̑͒͌̍̕_ _̃_ _͍̙̯̜̟̔̊̓͂̾͑̅̍_ _̦_ _̨̱̥͔̬͍̟̖̩̩̩̗̫̼͚̩̤͜_ _i_ _̸_ _̌_ _̅͘_ _̀_ _̝͌̑̕̚_ _f_ _̶͐_ _̈_ _̛͛͛͋̓͛̎̇̅̍͘̕_ _̃̉_ _̧̱̱̪͙̖̬̠̫͚̼_ _u_ _̴͛̎̓͐_ _̉_ _͂̓͌͛̈́͐̾͘͠͝_ _̃_ _͗̓̄̅̓͘̕͠͠_ _̋_ _̢̼̗̟_ _͇_ _̡͖̜͜_ _l_ _̶̈́͊_ _̋_ _͐͊͛̍̾͛_ _̂_ _͋̈́̑_ _̈̂_ _̒̾̍̓̕_ _̌_ _̢̛̙͕͎͙̜̫̪̻̮̼̻͙̪͓̝͚̼̫̗̜̖̲͌̄͜ͅ_ _̦_ _̡̢̧̺̞̤̘̺̞̗̞̮̻̫͎̤̻̥͍͜_

 

The goo that the tentacles seem to produce rolls and dribbles down the edge of his mouth, inside and outside, making a mess out of him. It has a strange taste, something Zenyatta has no words for, but it’s cold against the sensitive surface of his intake chamber, and it’s a pleasurable hiss against the heat burning through him.

He opens his mouth more, takes more of the tendril in, so much that a human would choke but he does not, lets it slither inside, overwhelming him with pleasure and data, his system overcharged and primed and aching for more as he moves his neck towards the tentacle, actively seeking to take in more.

The tentacle slides in and out, filling his intake chamber with goo, and Zenyatta’s throat clicks as he consumes some of it, feels the cold, sticky substance travel inside his body and groans at the feeling, and wants more.

The tentacle is thick, and big, and fills him to the point he can feel its fat width press against the soft stretch of the intake channel of his throat and relishes the feeling, clenches the servos that regulate the stream of data in that conduct and collects more of the goo inside him.

He ‘swallows’ again, and once more, and every time he shudders and the tentacle grows thicker and colder to fight off the burn that the goo brings to him.

The other tentacles are insistent in their touches, hardly forgettable –the one against his valve rubs against him, and Zenyatta feels himself move where he’s floating, turned enough that he’s sitting on the tentacle with his legs still spread apart as far as they can, the weight forcing its ridges to ride against the nub at the edge of his valve, making him shudder and moan.

Every insistent wriggle of the tentacle grinds against his nub, the smallest imperfections on its surface a delicious friction.

Zenyatta doesn’t need to breathe, but he gasps and pants and every few seconds he moans, groans and chirps, breathless and exposed and spread apart as the tentacles slowly break him through.

He grinds down on them as much as he can, wants them inside him, as deep as the one in his throat is, and then _deeper_.

 

_d_ _̵͑͛̾̑_ _́_ _̢̨̨̥̯̺͍̲͍͌̇_ _̦̳_ _̧̝͕͖͔̤̥̬̹̻̬ͅ_ _̦_ _̤̥_ _o_ _̴͌_ _̀̉_ _̡͎̹̭͝͠_ _͇_ _̘̻_ _̳_ _̢̨͚̥̰̖̜̬͔̥͕͎̜͜_ _̣_ _͕̫̲_ _̴̢̰̰͈̘̫̅͐̅̏_ _̦̦_ _̡̨̪͔̞̤_ _y_ _̴̎̈́͝_ _̋_ _̊͝_ _̃_ _̄_ _̆_ _̧̢͓̟̖̼͙_ _o_ _̶_ _́_ _͗_ _̈_ _̲̬̟̇͌͝͠_ _͇_ _͕̬̲̖̤̩̤̼̟̖_ _u_ _̸̧̝͚̩̖͓̎_ _̣_ _̹̟̫͉_ _̴͑̾͑̓͆̈́̐_ _̉́_ _͙̱͔ͅͅ_ _̦_ _̧͕̯͉͕̙͕̼̜̱̺̮̤_ _w_ _̵̊̐͘_ _̆̂̈_ _̛͋̏̈́͊̐̅̓͛̑̄͘_ _̀_ _̕_ _̃_ _̺͉̤̗͍̯̲̝͍̤͊̑͋ͅ_ _̣_ _̩͔_ _a_ _̶̪̤͉͓̭͕̲̭̹̪̬̓_ _̦_ _̢̨͓̻̗͍̬̰̬_ _̣_ _̖̹͖̱͎͚̠̩_ _̳_ _͈͖͍ͅ_ _n_ _̵_ _̂_ _͂͆̏͂̽̚_ _̋_ _̽̈́_ _̃_ _̌_ _͋_ _̉_ _̦_ _̝̗_ _̳_ _̣_ _̧͖̫̹͍͚̞̘̱̹̥͖̜_ _t_ _̵̈́̒͝_ _̆_ _͌̍̽_ _̋_ _͑̽̈́͆̎̚_ _̆_ _̧̠̻͕̈́_ _̷_ _̋̋̌_ _̉_ _͊̾̐̚_ _̃_ _̈_ _̊̓̍̽_ _̋_ _̍̇_ _̆_ _̡̗͖̼̹͉͓̭̤͉̄_ _͇_ _m_ _̶͗͆̎̅_ _̈_ _͆̕̕͝_ _́̉_ _̨̧̧̢͙͍̠͚͙̤̠̭͈̤̗̩͉͙͎̓_ _o_ _̷̒͂͛̅̐͑̎̒_ _̉_ _̨̨̜̹̻̰̖̜͖͙̼̠̑ͅ_ _r_ _̶͐͛_ _̋̌_ _͗̕͘_ _̃_ _̛̹̟̖͌͒̓ͅ_ _e_ _̶̒͠_ _̈_ _̒_ _̈_ _̟͚̲͔̟̭͓̩̯͍̇͊͒̒̕_ _͇_ _̢̰͖͔̬̼̱ͅ_ _̣_ _̡̱̲̻_ _?_ _̴̏_ _̈_ _̔̾̔_ _̂_ _͂͛_ _̆_ _͑̿_ _̆̂̌̋_ _̼̻͎͛̄_ _̦̦_ _̨̝_ _͇_ _̜͚ͅ_

 

Zenyatta cries out, his synth chirping, and attempts to spread himself further.

He wants to beg, but words escape him, even his mental processes slowing down, sluggish, his desire a wordless plea.

(yes

yes please

_yes)_

There is not much else of him to offer when he’s given himself to the Iris already, when he’s getting teased, when every inch of his body is taken care of so gently, completely, until he can’t think, he can’t talk, he can only _gasp_ and _receive_ , but he wants to give more, and–

The tendrils around his cock tighten their hold, goo sliding down its curve and to his valve, already dripping slick that disappears into the void, the tendril underneath him undulating and pressing harder against it.

Zenyatta is sure he must be screaming but he can’t hear himself.

Then, the tendril underneath him moves away, the tip the only thing left against him, teasing his nub with small, delicate rubs and presses.

It teases it until Zenyatta is sobbing and writhing, arching away and into the touch.

The pleasure stretches out but he is unable to find a peak, even with the impossible pressure of tentacles over his body, even with the one fucking the insides of his intake chamber, raw input passing through his brain with every thrust, even with the other tentacles caressing his prosthetic cock, and the ones nudging all the other sensors over his body in a delicious torture.

He feels everything, and craves more

 

_m_ _̴_ _̋_ _͂̉̚͝_ _̛͂̈́̿͌̏̐̅̅̏̇̓͛̓͌̀̕͘͠͝_ _͗̊_ _̌_ _̆͘_ _̨̛̤̱͈̻͖̥̙̜͈̐͝_ _͇_ _̞͜_ _̦_ _̲͓̜̣_ _̡͚̭͚_ _͇_ _̗̼͕̗̣_ _̡̞̣_ _̡̝̹o_ _̴͐̇͐͐͑͆̐͂̄͆͆̽͌̉̀͘͝͝_ _͐̓̓̉_ _̈́_ _̋_ _̈́͋͗̾̄̅͌̍_ _̋̆_ _̡̡̟̼̱̙̱̭̲̘͜ͅr_ _̵́_ _̘̝̻͆e_ _̷̏̾̀͝_ _͑́_ _̋_ _̅̃͝_ _͌̈́̉_ _̾̐͐̔̈́̃̚͠_ _̗̫̪̘̐͒̓̓͗̑̐͌͘͘ͅ_ _̳_ _̡̢͚̟̥̠̟͉̰̩̺̹͜_ _͇_ _̨̨̡̲̝͉ͅ_

 

He’s leaking so much slick lubrication that the sliding of the tentacle against his nub is maddening, slippery and never enough.

Zenyatta cries out again, begs, and the tentacles answer by moving slower, until the pace is languid yet never ending.

The tip of his cock, where most sensors are, is sensitive and leaking more lubrication, and a tentacle nudges it, rubbing insistently at the sensors until Zenyatta keens.

The tentacles against his backside spread him further apart, lewdly, for the otherworldly attention that is entirely focused on Zenyatta, in front of Them and within Them, and from the depths of the darkness, further into the void, green eyes blink in and out of existence, trained on the trembling, shivering form of Zenyatta where he cannot escape.

 

_m_ _̸_ _̌_ _̽̊̎͐̊̚̚̕_ _̋_ _̇̐̓̽̇́͘͝_ _̆_ _̓̀_ _̛̓̍͐_ _̆_ _̛̇͋̒͛̐̐͐̀_ _̈_ _̨̨̡̢̧̡̧̧̝̗̯̫̺̘̥̙̻̰̺̯͔̟̯̠͕͕̜̻̫̼̥͕̭͍͍̱̖̫͖̱̝̠̞̻̹̭͕̲̮̘̬̝̙̫͚̘̇̑͌͜͜͜ͅo_ _̴͋̓͛̓̚_ _̋_ _̓̒_ _̆_ _̎̄̓̐̅̀͠_ _̒_ _̆̈_ _̢̮̇_ _̳_ _̫̰͈̪͓̣ͅͅ_ _̡͉̻̗͓͙̰̜̣_ _̡̞̼̯_ _͇_ _̧̨͎̫̙̺̭͎̫͉͓͚̻̱̥͈̻͓̙_ _͇_ _͍ͅ_ _͇_ _͎̞_ _͇_ _̘̪̖͚̖̻͍̲̖̥̙r_ _̷̏̉͠_ _̛̓͗̓̒̎͑̒̒̓̃͝͝_ _̿̃̉_ _͑̈́̎̓̀_ _̐̍͑̿_ _̂_ _̛̒͌͂̃_ _̒͗̅͛́_ _̓͊̑_ _̌̈_ _̈́̽̊̅̊͒̓̈́͝_ _̂_ _͔̜͒͗̅͛͑e_ _̶̑͑̅̓̃͝_ _͛̉̕_ _̛̛̏͌͒̔̽͗͐̈́͋͑̈́̾̀͘͘_ _̈́̅̍_ _̂̋_ _͛͒̽̄̍͑̈́͊̔͑́͠_ _̄̽͝_ _̋̈̃_ _̡̰̬͉͚͚̩̰͈̲̪̥͍͙̖̣̽̐̒͌̓̾͆̚͜͜͝_ _̡̡̯̞͖̥̱̮̠̪ͅ_ _̦_ _̫̲_ _͇_ _͙_ _͇_ _̹̙͙_ _͇_ _͈̙̲̩_

 

Around Zenyatta’s body the darkness closes in, almost oppressive, yet he does not notice –the warmth of the golden glow keeps the coldness at bay, the heat of it seeping into his circuits, into his system, and the green eases the burn in a delicious mix, and Zenyatta

falls deeper.

_D_ _̷̒͑̈́̇̊͋͐_ _̌_ _̮̣̓_ _̦_ _̰̥̪͉̺̣͜_ _̩̗̠̺̝͍_ _̦_ _̨̲o_ _̵̇͐_ _̆_ _̈́̄̅̑̽̿͝_ _̂_ _͗̀̃͝_ _̅̈́̀͝_ _̽͛̓̑̀̚_ _̎̇̏_ _̂_ _͛͊̄_ _̋_ _͆̾̓͑̃_ _̛̛̙͎͉̣̽̈́̾̓̄͗͜͝ͅ_ _̸̃_ _͌̇̐̓̾͂̾_ _̋̂̂́_ _͑̓̈́͑_ _̋̋́_ _̉_ _̑̿͗͌̾͒̇̓̍̀͠͠_ _̈_ _̎̒̏̏͆̽̓͝͝_ _̋_ _̡̧̼̟̜̣_ _͉̹̼̣͜͜_ _̺̯̤̣̣͜_ _̢͚̹̭̪̙͜y_ _̷̔͛͂̒̊̾̔_ _̂_ _̅͋̓_ _̌_ _̏̃͝_ _̽̄̔́̕_ _̐͑̓̐͆́͝_ _̈́_ _̈_ _͌̏̈́͘_ _̆_ _̔͊̏̿_ _̆_ _̡̲̹̏͗̚_ _̦_ _̢̟̰̰͙͜͜_ _̳_ _͉o_ _̸̃̕_ _͛͌̾_ _̌_ _̾̍͋̐̔̚_ _̌_ _̈́̅̃_ _̓̀̉̕͠_ _͛͒̑̊_ _̌_ _̇_ _̌_ _̟͈̤̜͈͚̏u_ _̶̔̃_ _͂̒͊͘_ _̆_ _͒_ _̌_ _̾͛͂͐̽͌͘͠_ _̌_ _̎̔̄͐̕̕͠_ _̳_ _̧̡̙̻͉͕̣_ _̥̣_ _̭̭̼̱̘̭͎̼̖͓̗̲̖̠͍͜_ _͇_ _̡̥̬̜̲̟̥͔̯_ _̷̈́̀_ _̂_ _̓̔͛_ _̋_ _͐͑̑̉͘͝_ _͑͌͛̏͐̉̚_ _̛̑͒͗͒͝_ _̌_ _̧̛̗͉̱̥̼̈́̾̈́͛ͅ_ _͇_ _̢̜̠͓̗͔̻_ _͇_ _̨̨̯̹͖̹͜_ _͇_ _͕̩̹̹_ _̳_ _̢̻̲_ _̦_ _̨̰͔̙̫̹̫̖w_ _̶́_ _͒͐̎̈́͝_ _̈_ _̒͛͗̇̍́_ _̛͗͑̔͂_ _̈_ _̊͗̚_ _̈_ _͒͗̓̅͗_ _̌_ _̀͝_ _͊̊̑_ _̆_ _̧̢͚̻̯̺̥͍̥̹͓̠̲̘͔̜ͅ_ _͇̳a_ _̶̽̓́_ _̏̿̅_ _̋_ _̃̕͝_ _̈́́̉_ _̈́̄̽̓̑͌̚͠_ _̌_ _͗_ _̌_ _̿̍̓͘_ _̳_ _̨̫̗͕_ _̦_ _̨̧̩̟̟̭̺̹̱̼͎͚̮͜n_ _̷͂͐_ _̌_ _͗̿͋̇̽̈́͂̏_ _̋_ _͌_ _̂_ _͐͝_ _̂_ _̽̿͗͌͊̈́̈́̕_ _̂_ _̍_ _̋̀_ _̛͊̍͗̍̐͂̈́̈́̕_ _̈_ _̧͉͕̜̭̬͍͙̘̬͔̞̘̯̓t_ _̷̃_ _̈́͂̊̊͂_ _̈_ _͌̾̈́_ _̋_ _̽_ _̦_ _̡̮̖̗_ _̵_ _̋_ _̅͂_ _̈_ _̽̽̉_ _̈́̒͗͒͌͛̊́̚_ _̚_ _̂_ _̇̍͝_ _̌_ _̿̍́_ _̿_ _̋_ _͉̿̾͆̒͆͆_ _̦_ _̢̲͔̪̣ͅ_ _̡̨̥͖͓̱͙͔m_ _̸́_ _͋̽̈́̄̎͗_ _̈_ _̄̅̃̚_ _̏̓͂̓̈́̀_ _́_ _̒͛̓̎͌̈́̑̀͘͝_ _͍͖̗̣̐̾̐̎̇̑̐͋͝_ _̨̨̨̞͍͔͙͔̻͉̻͎̜̠͔̜̲͓̲̤̟_ _̦_ _̡̧͍̙̙͖͈e_ _̶̎̐̒͘_ _̂_ _͊̎̔͂̅̐̄̅͒̃_ _͘_ _̆_ _̛̏̐͂̄̀͝_ _̚_ _̈̌_ _̓̅̀_ _̿̃_ _̛_ _̈_ _̈́͗̀_ _̡̥̞̠̫̣͆̐_ _͈̤̣ͅ_ _̠_ _͇_ _̨̤̙̠_ _̳_ _̝_ _̷_ _̆_ _͛͗͆̀_ _̧̢̨̡̨̢̢̟̮͉̗͚̯̥̤̞̝͖̙͈̩͙͓͎̭̪͉̞̪̤͎̘͠_ _͇_ _̢̬̺i_ _̷͌̏͆̅̈́̐͠_ _̂_ _̅͐_ _̂̈̂_ _͒͋̉̚͠_ _͗̿_ _̈_ _͊͌͂͊̿̔̃͝_ _̃̚_ _̡̧̨̭̱͙̬͉̯̜̥̼͍̤̥̹̹̝͓̄̿̿̓ͅͅͅ_ _̦_ _̢̨͙͎̲̞͖̭͔̥͈̫̭̜̤̖͕̼n_ _̵̡̨̩̭̙̖͓̓̏̚_ _̷͐̍̅̕̕_ _̌_ _̛͊͒̾̅̐_ _̌_ _̔͗_ _̆_ _̄͒͒_ _̆_ _͓͉̣_ _̨̢̯̼̜̫̬͓̩̱͉y_ _̸̅͝_ _̋_ _͑_ _̈̈_ _͌͛̓̇̈́͛͗̾̄̒̔͐̓͠͝͝_ _̌̃_ _̓̒_ _̌_ _̈́̏͐̅̾̿̊̇̇̕̚_ _̂_ _̕_ _̂_ _̢̰͉͎̺̱̥͖̤͍̜o_ _̸̄͛̊̏̇͗̽̀̀͘͝͝_ _̃͘_ _͆̊_ _̋_ _̨̨̯͍̤̲͕͕̞̖̫̥̜̥̜̫͓̱͔̺͊̇͛̽͠͠u_ _̶̛̐̒̓̈́̅̎̈́͛͌̓͠_ _̆_ _͆_ _̋_ _̛̓͊̒͛͒̈́̅̍̀_ _͊͐͒_ _̈_ _͘_ _̈_ _̒_ _̌_ _̽_ _̌_ _̰͕̫̯̖̱̔̑̽͂̓_

_m_ _̸̊͋̈́͂̓̇̊̑_ _̋_ _̐̏͗̈́̍͠_ _̆_ _̡̢̱̤̹̪͍͓̟̥̺̼̲͙̜̥̊͑̓̾̎͜͜͝ͅ_ _̳_ _̪͖͚͚̫̮͓̺_ _̦_ _̧̗͓̙̘̤̘̰̰͚̼͜y_ _̴͗̄̿́͝_ _͓_ _̦_ _̹̫͉_ _̳_ _̙ͅ_ _̦̦_ _̧̢̨͎̪̙̰̩_ _͇_ _̡̗̫̜͈͚_ _̳_ _̨̬̹͈̗͔̱͈̲̞̞͜_ _̦_ _͔̰_ _̦_ _̯̤̰̰_ _̸̾̾̃͘͝͝_ _́͘_ _̋_ _͆̎̾͒͑͊͛̓͋͂̉̕͝͝͠_ _͗̐͑̅̎̊̒͘_ _͇_ _͍̱b_ _̶̨̧̧͍͉̘̝̻̤̱͍̭̹̠̪̖̼͙̗̮̝͎̲̲̹̒͋̾͂̑͆̅̐̐̓͜͜_ _̳_ _͎̺_ _̦_ _̢̢̢̼̖̠̯̟̭͎̙̘͔͜e_ _̶̍̊̍̅́͝_ _͌̄̿͑́͠_ _͂̊̇͝_ _̌_ _̛͛͂̃͝_ _̌_ _̈́͋͝_ _̂_ _̨̠̺̹̬̺̥̱̽͋l_ _̷̓͛_ _̈̂̌_ _̄́̀̚_ _̐̏͌͛̎̚_ _̌_ _̏̍̎̽̄̔̔_ _̂_ _̇̐̑̃_ _̌_ _̛̓̎͗̓͠_ _̆_ _̜͌̓̄o_ _̷̛̟̙͊͆̐v_ _̴_ _̈_ _̒́͠_ _̔͋͑̄͠_ _̂_ _̒̉_ _̢̢͉͈͈͍̗̤͖̻̭̩͔̱̘̞͚͂ͅe_ _̴̹̈́̐̊_ _͇_ _̝̠d_ _̷̔̈́͛̒̽́̕_ _̔͊͒̀_ _͚_

_m_ _̴͋̉_ _͗̓̓̏͒̈́̚_ _̈_ _̧̨̗̼̯̗͕̗̼̠̲̏̐_ _͇_ _̨̨_ _̳_ _͙̮͚̤̫̭͉̪̻̖̘̼̭y_ _̴_ _̌_ _̐̈́_ _̂̀_ ___̦̳_ _̨͓̜͔͓̖̰̞̞̪̝͙͕͜_ _̴_ _̋_ _̅͌͑̏̑̑̅͆̚_ _̈̋_ _̈́̏_ _̆_ _͂͑̃_ _̏͑̾_ _̌_ _̥̯_ _̳_ _̘̺̗̤̞_ _̦_ _̢̙̼̝͖̤̻̖͕̜̖̗ͅ_ _͇_ _̧͚̬͜_ _̳_ _̡͈͚͔̹s_ _̵́_ _̧̪͚̮̱̟͔_ _̳̦_ _̞̪̼̹͚̟̘̰̮͕̫̯̣ͅ_ _̨͙̖̺̖̗̤͉_ _̦_ _̧̢͖̝̟̟̺e_ _̵̐͑̄̈́͒_ _̋_ _̓͂̊̿͊́_ _͒͋̈́͗̈́̓͐̽_ _̆_ _̿̀_ _̓_ _̂_ _͐̎_ _̂_ _̓̇͠_ _̈̈_ _̽́͠_ _̀̕_ _̧̝̼̊̈́͒̄r_ _̷́_ _̻_ _͇_ _̡̘̙̘͔̭͈̟̞̘̪̘͔̻̥͓̯̠͜_ _̦_ _̨̨̢̤͓̯͖̖̪̮̟̙̺̟̠͙̝͙̖͉͙͖̯̬͉v_ _̵̅̉_ _̅͋͌̄̇̓͘͝͠͝_ _̂_ _̄͑̇̇͗̍̿͝_ _̋_ _̨̛̜̝̪̟̻̘̙̣͐͐̓͑̇͛͝_ _̡̹̫̫̖̩̻̭̬̮̞͎̼̰͈̖̺̬̮̖̰̜̞ͅa_ _̷͛̉_ _͊͋̀͝_ _͛̾̃_ _̌_ _̀͝_ _̊_ _̋_ _͑͋̔̑͠͠_ _̦_ _̢̧̢̨̧̠̘̫̩̩̭̱͍̖̹̮̘̼̖͕̩̮̰͈̞̯̙͈ͅ_ _͇_ _̢͍̩̖̥ͅn_ _̴_ _̋_ _͛_ _̈̀_ _̒̐͑̃_ _́͠͠_ _̨̡͖̲̲̲͈͕̞͉͖̭̗̞̻̠̫̬̹̻̻̲̤̘̹̤̱ͅ_ _͇_ _̧̪̤͖̺͖͜t_ _̶͛̏̍͋̿̈́̈́̈́̉̕͘_ _͋̉_ _̻̪̺̰̱͘ͅ_ _͇_ _̹̙̻_

_m_ _̴̐͂̿͂͋̔̐̑̎̾̇̈́͐͗͠_ _̂_ _̓_ _̦_ _̼͈̼͙̼̪͉͕̣ͅ_ _̗͎̤̘̬͈̙̬̙̱̭_ _̦_ _̡̺̗̪͖̗͓̝̬̞͜y_ _̵̯̙̈́̾̈́͐̐ͅ_ _̶̍̈́͐̊͛̊̓̓̔̑̒̈́͝_ _̋_ _͐͌_ _̌_ _̧̢͍̜͈͖̰͉̫̗̾̎̽͊̿̇͜͝d_ _̶͒̐͒̾̍̅͂͒̑͊̑͗͋̓̍́̕̚͝͝͝_ _͂͋̓́_ _͆̒̍̃_ _̧̞̹͕̼̠̖̗͑͒̿̈́͝_ _̳_ _̢̨͔̣_ _̫͕a_ _̴̃_ _͊̿_ _̂̃_ _̆_ _͗͐̽͝_ _̌̋_ _̧͍̥͙̲̟̰͉̥̮̅̾͆_ _͇_ _̪̲͖͚̣_ _̡̖̹_ _͇_ _͍̣_ _̜͔͍̫̠̖̲_ _̦_ _͙̣_ _̧͈r_ _̴̾̎̒̚͘_ _̆̋_ _̃͝_ _͆_ _̋_ _͆͊͌̕_ _̆_ _̒̇͂̅͛́͘_ _̀͝͝_ _͌̅͌͛̔̎̅̎͒͛͌̒̕_ _̋_ _̛̛͉̈́̅̏̽̎̊͛̕͜͝_ _̦_ _̡̡̢̬̖͓̜̭̞̹̹͕̥̹̘̭̲̟͙͙͎̤̮͍̣ͅ_ _̡͖̰_ _͇_ _͙̝̼̱l_ _̴̊̈́͂͗̈́̈́͒͊̏͊͠͝_ _̆̆_ _͆́_ _̈_ _̛̓͊͑̓̏̾̑̇̇̀̀̕͘̕͠͝_ _̊_ _̈_ _͛͑͘͠_ _̋_ _̔͐̃_ _̐̓̔_ _̦_ _̢͔̭̪͍͍͚̞̩̘͚̹̖̘̜̰_ _͇i_ _̵͛̔̀́̚_ _̅͐̎̉_ _͑̃_ _̒̐̃̃͠_ _̾̏_ _̆_ _͒̑̒̄͑͌́̉̃͠͠_ _͑_ _̂_ _̛͎̙̣̈́̒͆̎͑̅̑_ _̦_ _̯͔̯̝͔̜̟͚̯̖͈̪̘̱̟͎̰̖̬̞̞̪̜͓ͅ_ _̳_ _̜̖̤̱_ _̦_ _̫͙̣_ _̞̙̲n_ _̴̓͗͝_ _̈_ _̾_ _̈_ _̈́̔͗̾̒́͝_ _͒_ _̈_ _̈́̍͐̉͝_ _̈́̏̒͐̉_ _͗_ _̆_ _͛̉̚͘_ _͌_ _̈_ _͌_ _̋́_ _̐̍́_ _̄͊́_ _̧̞̼͖̘̙̖̮̜̠̭͈͎͈̇g_ _̶_ _̂_ _̛̊͛̽͒̑͐͝_ _̌́_ _̈́̓̉_ _̿̒̎̒́_ _̊̈́̃̕̕_ _̛̑̓͂̒͒̽͝_ _̋_ _̓_ _̆_ _̎̊̐̏_ _̂̉̀_ _̆_ _̾͘_ _̋_ _͊̾̊_ _̋_ _͔̲̱͙̩̥̬̞͜_

 

 

Words echo everywhere around him and Zenyatta keens, screams his agreement, wriggles against the restraints and goes nowhere, spread apart to be watched, and repeats inside his head a single word full of breathless awe

_Yes_

And a single tentacle, no gold anywhere in its form and glowing a dark, intense green answers his plea.

It rolls closer, circles around him, tenderly caressing his mouth piece, then lower, down his chest, then lower, rubbing itself against his folds, and Zenyatta thinks, _hopes_ , that it will finally enter him, but no

The tentacle travels back to his chest, nudges at the golden cover above his core, and then pushes against it, and–

With little resistance, it dips _into_ it.

Zenyatta chokes, the heat filling every inch of his body as the tentacle wriggles through his physical body and reaches deeper, somewhere he’s never touched, somewhere _inside_ him, and touches his core like a lover, a caress that sets Zenyatta on fire.

The sensation is unlike any other, so much that for a moment he forgets everything –the tentacles teasing and stimulating his sensors, the presence of Them around him, the pleasure– and can only focus on the _heat_.

Zenyatta’s mind opens up, he gazes into a dark, green abyss whose golden highlights are like speckles of light shining through, and then feels the abyss reach into him, and wash all over him.

For that single moment Zenyatta’s consciousness expands, stretches out, connects with the Iris, with Them, the edges of his body pointless and vanished as he is one with Them with a choked whimper, pressure at the edge of where his brain circuits should be, intense…

He has no time to think, no time to prepare, because he’s jolted back out, the burning tentacle still embedded into his chest, and feels the tendril against his valve push insistently against it.

_Yes, yes, yes, more, please–_

And then it slides inside him.

There is no burn, the lubrication more than enough to ensure the only thing he can feel is the wriggling tentacle making its way inside him, stretching the delicate, overstimulated sensors inside him that had so craved to be filled.

It is not as big as he’d expected, but he pushes down into it, whimpers when he feels it retreat before pushing back inside, the wet sounds mixing with the sounds coming from his synth, loud and vibrating in the depths of the nothingness.

He sobs when he feels another tentacle caress the base of his valve, teasing him before wriggling inside as well, and then he feels the stretch, a light burn that he cherishes as the second tentacle pushes inside and the first tentacle slides out, the dual sensation enough to make him almost short-circuit.

Zenyatta’s brain processes shut down, all the main routines failing as more and more of his energy is spent on processing the pleasure, even that almost too much.

He’s stretched open, finally filled, the tentacles undulating in and out and in again, and that’s enough and–

Zenyatta crests over and climaxes, overloading in a burst of tiny whirrs, clicks and chirps.

The pleasure is burning inside him with every time the tentacles twist inside him, his cock searing hot and slippery against the tight wriggling mass of tiny tendrils wrapped around it, and his climax stretches on like a maddening build-up, cracking through him like a burst of energy.

He comes out of it feeling winded, and like he hasn’t climaxed at all, his body still on the edge, pleasure cursing through him.

Zenyatta pants and groans, unable to process why he’s still feeling on the brink of another release when he’s already had one, but the whispers surrounding him coo, and the tentacle cradling his head caresses down his neck, gently, like a hand, even as the tendrils inside his mouth wriggle and move, to remind him they’re still there.

The tentacles inside his valve undulate and move, and Zenyatta seizes up, goes nowhere, and when they move out and back in, Zenyatta is suddenly there again, crashing through a second orgasm so close to his first that the pleasure blurs and he slumps down, bliss taking control of him even as he shakes and twitches.

 

m̸̨̨̡̢̧̡̧̧̛̛̝̗̯̫̺̘̥̙̻̰̺̯͔̟̯̠͕͕̜̻̫̼̥͕̭͍͍̱̖̫͖̱̝̠̞̻̹̭͕̲̮̘̬̝̙̫͚̘̌̽̊̎͐̊̋̇̐̓̽̇́̆̓̀̓̍͐̆̇͋̒͛̐̐͐̀̈̇̑͌̚̚̕͘͜͜͜͝ͅo̴̢̡̡̧̨̮̳̫̰͈̪͓̣͉̻̗͓͙̰̜̣̞̼̯͇͎̫̙̺̭͎̫͉͓͚̻̱̥͈̻͓̙͇͍͇͎̞͇̘̪̖͚̖̻͍̲̖̥̙͋̓͛̓̋̓̒̆̎̄̓̐̅̀̒̆̈̇̚͠ͅͅͅȑ̷̛̛͔̜̉̓͗̓̒̎͑̒̒̓̃̿̃̉͑̈́̎̓̀̐̍͑̿̂̒͌͂̃̒͗̅͛́̓͊̑̌̈̈́̽̊̅̊͒̓̈́̂͒͗̅͛͑͠͝͝͝ḛ̶̡̡̡̛̛̬͉͚͚̩̰͈̲̪̥͍͙̖̣̯̞͖̥̱̮̠̪̦̫̲͇͙͇̹̙͙͇͈̙̲̩̑͑̅̓̃͛̉̏͌͒̔̽͗͐̈́͋͑̈́̾̀̈́̅̍̂̋͛͒̽̄̍͑̈́͊̔͑́̄̽̋̈̃̽̐̒͌̓̾͆̕͘͘̚͜͜͝͠͝͝ͅ

 

Again, as the pleasure recedes enough to think, Zenyatta grows aware that… it’s not _enough_.

Dizzy, confused, he is still on the same edge of pleasure, feels it vibrate inside his cables and his chassis, and responds with a loud, glitched-out whine.

He can’t find respite, he can’t calm down, the need, the heat, the want all fill him, and the tentacles fucking him are barely enough, and he wants

_more_

there is not an end to the pleasure, as if it cannot end without Their will, and Zenyatta is back there, shuddering and with his forehead array blinking unsteadily, caressed and filled to the brim, and _shakes_.

Gently, so gently, the tentacles cradling his head caress and pet his forehead, leaving behind trails of goo over its surface, the touch cool against his overheating system.

The tendrils fucking inside his intake chamber wriggle back a little, just enough to lessen the pressure, and Zenyatta gasps and lets out more muffled sounds, his synth almost cracking under the constant need to cry out.

He wants again, he wants more, everything he wants is muddled inside his brain, but the whispers chide him, overlapping words reassuring him, praising him, murmuring endearments until he’s leaning into the touch, panting hard and chirruping, still kept on the edge of pleasure, exhausted yet needing it more now than ever.

With small, steady thrusts, the tentacles inside him retreat and coil back into him and Zenyatta gasps and chirps as they move faster until they’re fucking him with a merciless, continuous rhythm, not a single sensor inside him going untouched.

Relentless, they stimulate his oversensitive valve, soppy and stretched out, and it spasms and clenches around them to keep them inside.

They make him feel so good, and the feeling of being spread open and fucked has him almost reeling, until there’s only pleasure, and bliss, and… _and_ …

The tentacles continue on.

The ones holding his arms cradle him tightly, caress his wrists, his ankles, slide past his circuitry, fill every niche and nook of his body, rub him and milk him dry, slide back down his intake chamber and attempt to burn him alive, and Zenyatta has no choice–

He comes again, dripping lubrication from his mouth, from his valve, feels more of the goo fill him, thick and cold, and shivers and cries out.

The pleasure threatens to overclock his processors, little sparkles flickering from the cables on the back of his neck and the ones on his chest, fans working overtime to lower the rising temperatures of his body, but Zenyatta’s mind swims through it, overwhelmed, almost floating as he’s kept at a constant state of delirious bliss, the tentacles inside him slithering and writhing inside.

It’s still not enough to calm the heat within him, but by now, Zenyatta has come to expect that, and can do nothing else but whine, chirrup and take it, little glitches and white noise coming out of his synth.

The small bundle of tiny tentacles that are wrapped around his cock move down its length, some shift down to rub at his nub again and it glows against them, and Zenyatta whines, with barely enough energy to moan as he’s fucked through again and again, the tentacles slamming into him jolting his entire frame in the air as they grow more determined, rough.

 

m̸̨̨̡̢̧̡̧̧̛̛̝̗̯̫̺̘̥̙̻̰̺̯͔̟̯̠͕͕̜̻̫̼̥͕̭͍͍̱̖̫͖̱̝̠̞̻̹̭͕̲̮̘̬̝̙̫͚̘̌̽̊̎͐̊̋̇̐̓̽̇́̆̓̀̓̍͐̆̇͋̒͛̐̐͐̀̈̇̑͌̚̚̕͘͜͜͜͝ͅo̴̢̡̡̧̨̮̳̫̰͈̪͓̣͉̻̗͓͙̰̜̣̞̼̯͇͎̫̙̺̭͎̫͉͓͚̻̱̥͈̻͓̙͇͍͇͎̞͇̘̪̖͚̖̻͍̲̖̥̙͋̓͛̓̋̓̒̆̎̄̓̐̅̀̒̆̈̇̚͠ͅͅͅȑ̷̛̛͔̜̉̓͗̓̒̎͑̒̒̓̃̿̃̉͑̈́̎̓̀̐̍͑̿̂̒͌͂̃̒͗̅͛́̓͊̑̌̈̈́̽̊̅̊͒̓̈́̂͒͗̅͛͑͠͝͝͝ḛ̶̡̡̡̛̛̬͉͚͚̩̰͈̲̪̥͍͙̖̣̯̞͖̥̱̮̠̪̦̫̲͇͙͇̹̙͙͇͈̙̲̩̑͑̅̓̃͛̉̏͌͒̔̽͗͐̈́͋͑̈́̾̀̈́̅̍̂̋͛͒̽̄̍͑̈́͊̔͑́̄̽̋̈̃̽̐̒͌̓̾͆̕͘͘̚͜͜͝͠͝͝ͅ

 

He wants to scream, no more thoughts in his brain except the complete acceptance of the pleasure, but even that much energy is almost _too much_ for him.

Zenyatta barely notices when his optical receptors go offline, too much data burning through his system, failure critical, and refuse to restart, as even without sight the tentacles are visible to him, green and flickers of golden burning through his vision.

He barely notices when he can’t hear his own screams as his auricular receptors fizz offline, for the whispers curl around him nonetheless, a blanket of endearments and love cushioning him, leading him on, coaxing more sounds out of him.

His fingers twitch, his legs jolt every time the tentacles fuck into him, wet lewd sounds swallowed by the darkness, and this way he’s brought to his next climax, slow like a tide but just as strong and demanding, sweeping him away with waves of pleasure.

Again, Zenyatta arches up, spread wide and shuddering, and comes, strings of teal slick dripping out of his cock only to be swept away by the tentacles that have yet to stop.

His body is thrumming, sore and aching in such a pleasant, deep way, but the tentacles have no intention to pause, still fucking him, still coaxing more sounds out of him, still bent into stealing more from him, and

Zenyatta can do nothing about it, even as his body is too oversensitive that the pleasure tips into pain, yet just as sweetly welcome as before as he arches into it, begs to be fucked harder, the searing heat and need he feels inside his chest growing stronger with every thrust.

 

l̸̨̨̗͔͔͈̗̱̯̰̬̝̺̫̙̺̖̥̭̹̟̤̜̘͓̋̈́̒̂͋͂̈̽͋͌̌̋͐͊̃͛̒̓̒͛̂͆͆͆̈́̉̈̉̐̅̾͆̇͒̓̚̕̕̕͝ě̶̛̛̛̛̛̺̤͇͙̦̠̥̾̓̎̑̋̍̏͒̿̐̐͋̿̐͂̈̍̈̔͊̍̍̉̀͑̈́͛̌͌̚͝͠͠͠͝͝ţ̴̢̢̨̛̛͖͓̻̺̗͕̻͖͈͍̟͈̱̩͐̂̈̈́̇͆̈̂̓̈͑͛̑̀̿̓̏̅͒̅̇͜͝͝ ̶̢̡̧̧̛̩̼̯̣̬̜͈̫̯̳̹̹͕̥̹̼̩̭͎̰͚͇̜̦̲̤̦̪̯̰̤̥͇͙̰͕̩̼̙͛͊̅̄̎̔̔̑͆̎͗̀̓͌̂̋̐̄̈́̑̏͑̐̍̃̄͘͘̕͜ͅȳ̵̡̢̧̡̨̘̲̫̩̻̖̙̱̞̩͔͓̳͓̹̟̖̠̪̙͉͖̯̘͚̱͕͙͙̣̹̬̖̰̙̭̞̞̿̎͛́̏̓̔͝ͅơ̵̡̪̞͚̳̩̠̻̗̮͓͚̌̾͛͌͐̑͛͌̍̽͊͊̏̈́͑̓̾̍̊̈̃̏͛̇͒̋͒̋̈͗̓̋̅͘̕̕̕̕ư̸̧͉̝̳̩̯̟̓͒́̽̄́͂̎͗̑͜͝r̸̡͚͍̲͉̣͈͈̯̹̓́̿̓̿̃̐̃͗̾̾̈̒̐̍͛̽̏̈́̑̌̑̏͗̔̃̾̎͛̂̇̽̅̅̇̿̓͐̓̎̃͂̀̐̐͘̕̚͘̕͠͝͝͝͠s̶̛̥̦̒̒͂͆̆͛̑͌̌͐̽̿͆̎̌͒̔̈́̾̈́͑͌̔̈́̾͂͂͒͝͝͝e̴̡̛̺͎͓͙̥͇̱͔̱̘͚̻̲͔̩͈͇̲̤̭̩̼͎̜͇͎͕̺̳͖̖̫͚͎̹̦̲̘̫̝̣͓̬̗̅̃̓̽̆̔͒̿̓̌͒̑͂͐̓̊͛̈́̎͗̃͆̒͂̑͘̚͠͝l̴̩̖̤̥̪͔͈̥̼̉̐͜f̴̢̣̲̳̫̗̫̞̩̻̹͚̲͍̲͓͔̖̖̦̣̞̩̬̩͉̅̇͋̇̒̓̋̎̃̽̍̾̚̕͝͝ ̷̧̢̧̡̧̯͇̯͎͖̫̞̻̣͉̯̮̺̹̰͇̯̲̟͈͕͚̗̮̠̗̗̠̞̫̜̖̱̭̫͚͍͎̔̓̍̂͐̃̀̈́̊̐̋͘͜͝͠ͅͅg̴̡̡̧̛̛̦̥̪̙̲̘̹̟͎̱̫͍͚̣̬̲̣̤̦͍̱͖̜̮̺͍͕̖͖̞̺͉̯̫͓͈̤̮̃̉̃͛̆̂̍͗̾̐͌͋́̉́̔̓͂̎̂̓͒̋̑̾̎̈́̿̌͌̍̈́̑̾̎̈́̅̑͛̐͂̑̽͘̚͜͝͠͠͝ͅơ̵̢̢̢̡̡̡̛̺̮̳̼̘̺̖͇̥̪̖̲͕͈̬͎̥̬̟̝̦̻̞͎̠̻̬̱͉̣̦̱̳͕̩̠̥͈̾̏͛̾̽͂̃̃͛́́̇̎́͂̌̚̕̚̚͜͝͝ͅͅͅͅ,̴̛͎͕͍̫̪̤̻͚͚͒͛͐̅͒̂̀͂̆̅̎̀̈́̾̃̈́̑̿̏̈̚̚͘͜͝ ̶̡̢̭͎͖̫̪͙͍̙̳͚͕̹̬̬̹̻̭͙̜̗͎̠͕̞̣̬̹̣̣̝̪̳̠̟̳̟̞̜̪͉̼͖̯̮͍̺͇̈́͑̃̇͐͋́̊̆̐͐̍̃̈̑͒͂̾͌̉͊͊͆̓̊̔̄̇̉̈͌͒̆͊́̉̔̂͘̚͘͝͠m̸̛̜͙̦̟̹̟̟͙̫͓̀̿̅͋̃͋̈́͊̀͋͌͆̋̍̇̊͑́̈́̎͌̈́̊͆͗̔̊̆̃̅̈́͂̾̀̿̀͊̄̄͠͝͝͝͠y̴̨̡̧̧̢̛̛͙̹̺̯̼̯̱͓̪̬̲̥̖̦͚̘̣̳̱̠̗̞̮͖̩͇̤̰͓̱͇̪͉̠̭̦̻̝̰̥̞̜̮̪̺͇̻͂̉̆̈́̀͗͌̈́̈̒̓̆̎͊̓̑̌̕̚͘̚͜͝͝ ̸̨̡̧̨̛̦̺̣̼̗̻͈͓̞͈̠͖̹̦̺͖̗̪̫̞̙͍̹̺͔̦̘̯̭̙͎̝̰̻̤̰͑̀̊͘͜ͅp̶̨̢̧̢̢̛͉̫͇̻̥̜̳̭͖̥̙̩̹͚̘͔͈̤̪͎̟̪̫͎̦͇̠̩̠͒̿͂̇̒̋͋̎͌̑̽̎̅̔͌̋̓̊̀̐̏̽̉̔͊̐͊̀͒̈̑͐͘̚͘͜͝͠͝͝ͅṛ̵̨̨̨̢̢̢̛̛̺͍̜͎̹̗͙̤̗̳̹̼̠̣̟̻̲̙͔̼̪͚̦̺̻̺̖̲̆͂̄̀͊̄̍͐̈̽̂̉̿̈́̇̂͋̏̂̊̓̍͑̇̓̔̾͜͜͜͝͝͠ȩ̷̛̛̞̰̦̤̲̤̼̜͇̖͐̈̂̐͋̈́͌̃̈́̊̍̂̉̅̓̇̃̔̈́̀͐̔͌̃̽̍̕̚͘͘̚̚͜͠͝͝͠ĉ̴̢̡̼̼̱͈̘̗̉̀̆̇̍͒̈͝͝ĩ̶̡̡̢̢̛̯̤̗͕̜̳͖̙̩̘̗̞̲̹̜̬̙̬̯̰̹̙̼̟͖̰̲̪̯̻̹̣̱͎͉̬͔̝̗̖̅̉̇̇̓̇̎͌͆̓͊́̈́̇̾̔̃̈̑͗̌͆̍̉̎̚̚͠͝ơ̵̢̢̧̢̟̫̝̫͈͉͉͉͔̤̳̦͓̻̫͖͇̹̺̱̯̯̙̰͉̥̹̼̬̞͔̳̤̓̾̊͋̉͛͐̎̆̈́́̀͛̈́͑̽̓͐̊͒̃͌̄̋͛͐̈̑̆͊̾͗̓̕̚̚͘͘̚͝͝ͅͅͅͅų̴̧̛̗̫͔̩͍̗̦̹̦̲̮̣͍̜̟͕̖̭̰͇̫̩͓̞̭̟̖̠̝͙̣͖̙̯͓͌̀̓͛̓̊̓̑̊̾̉̓̓̆͗̆͊͊̐̒̔̋͛̔̈́̀́̐͒̌͛̐̉̅̈̉̔̔̓͗̽̕̚̚͠s̴̡̢̨̛͕̼̺̹̺͚̱͈̗͙̼̪̲̬͇̰͚͖̻̭̜͓̪̼̟͈͚͌̇̓̿̈̂͐̏͌̓̂͐͑͑̾̿͑̑̈́̿̒̚̚͘͠͝͠͠,̴̧̧̧̢̢̢͙̺͖͔̻̭̤̬̮̱̠̠̯̲͖̫͓̲͕̩̪͔͖͍͓̩̩͔̠̗͙͉͔̰͆͒̍͌́͜͝͠ ̵̨̢̨̛͚̤̗̱̹̣̙̣̘̤̩̝͈͓̹̠̞̭̯͚̫̬̟̣͚̺̬͕̖̭͍̣̣̠̼̯̰̬͙͍̖̰̭̗̭̗͕̮̰̠͑̈̆̅͛̍̓̄͒̉̓̌̀̈́͊̈́̍͆̏̑̒̃͊̿̕̕͠ͅm̷̡̡̧̢̨̢̛͇̩͕͎̗̪̞̘̳̗̬̖̻͔̳̫͔̲͍̰̫͈͍̟͈̦͈̲̯̠̝͍̤͚̺͖͚̹̬̣̗̭̖̳̭͐̽̅̑̑̄̀͋̒͒͐̇̔̏͛͂̎̂͑͌̎̿̅̉̽̏͒̓̈́̄̇̎͌̎̈́͛͊͗̕͘͘͘͘̚͜͠ͅį̶̮̦̲̼͎͕͈͇̐̒̓̈́̑͌̐̇̏̀̇̾͂͆̉̎̓͗̇̅̊̈́̓̐̿̈́̾̽̎̓̿͒̎̂̇͗̔͋̿̉̂͛̉͆̉̔̚̚͠͝͝n̶̙̘̹̈̒̒͊̔̏̏͐͜͝ę̷̡̨͙͔̺̜̜̟̲͓̳̘̻̤͖͈̝̤͍͈̜̥̞͎̰̖̩̰͎̲͕̖̥̘̮̲̭̳͖̈́́̓̍͒́͆̆̅͊͋̒,̵̡̨̨̢̛̳̟͚͕͕̣̠̳̗̱̭͉̭͈͕͙̣̮͚͚̪̗̞̂͂͆͊́͒̓̋̏͆̇̚̚̚͝͝ ̶̼̱̥̘̥̋̈̅̎̏́̽͊̔̈́̏̏̎̔̏̿̑̏͊͛̔̑̈́͗̍̓̐̊̄͂͌̇̎̂͊̈́̈́̏̒͘̕͘͘͝͝ṁ̵̮̙̪̲̣̤̥͍̙̮̞̙͙̳̦̜̘̺̖̪̯͇̆̿͊͐̓̈̇̂̌͑̇̆̆̑͗̀̂́̀̓̚̕͘͠i̶̡̦̣̲̭̝͚̯̜̗̞̻͔̞͔͈̪̩̹̙̲̙̝̠͔̻͉̜͚̼͓̜͆̈́̉̎͒̄͛͋̋͐̇̓͂̒͗̈́̔̏͛͑͊̉͛͒͛̋͊͊̋͂̍̿̄͂̍̃̑͂̐͊̓͘͘͠͝ͅn̷̢̡̧̧̨̡̢̧̰̮͕͓̫̥͇͓̦̼̝̖̰̯̲̖̼̬̞͓͎̫̙̳͓̝͍̲̱͖̰̺͎̜̜̞̟̥̘͕͇͚̯̳̟̻͐̌́̐̾̄͆̽̅̍̕ͅe̷̡̢̠̝̮͙̤͉̙̥̜͈̭̹̜̳͍̼͉̙̟̖̻̝̒̽̃̒̽̃͘͜͜͝ͅ,̷̡̧̡̨̭̣̖͔̥͇̳͚̞̼̦̥̝̠̮̮̜̗̩͚̲̖̯̖͖͓͙͎̳̯͔̯̲̪̥̪̥̺͍͎̗͔̲̼̣̳̑̍̈́͋̿̈́͑͛͌͌̏̐͌̋̑̑͂̂͐͗͂͐͗̕͜͜͝ ̷̡̨̛̛̬͙̠̠̻̻̤͎̮̺̻̮̥̭͚̬̖͉̜̞͓͓̜̰̜̮̼̳̮͕̦̰̞̤̼̗͇̹͉̹̜͖͈̬̼̫͉̺̗͋̈͋̔͐́͜͜f̵̡̨̝͙̰̼̯̙̠̫̣͖̮̲͇͇̞̮̱͙̫̖̭̙̳̦̜͚̬̫͍̗̜̭̖̬̯͚̖̙̭̭̫̦̹͇͓̠̠̆̅͆͋̊͜͜͠ơ̸̢̢̘͓̹̗͎̳̟̝̫̪̳̘͎̱̤̼͕̱͎͙̟̪͚̩̗͇̙̟̹̼̠̜̭̹̆͛̄̈́̾͋̒͗̈́̑̏͐̿̍͋͊̈͒̓̈́̊̿̈̂̄͗̔̍̿͝͝͝ṛ̷̨̧̡̨̘͙̪̜̼̳̱͓̭̯̰̤͖͖͓͇̺̟̰͖̠̪͈̼̤̺̤̮̖̙̭͙̗̱̹͔̟͔̮̹̭͕̩͚̝̂̓̋̃̈̓̽͌̅̎̆̈́̾̈̆͆̚͜͜͜͜͝͝͝e̷̢̡̡̝̬͕̗͖̥͈͇̪͖̙͇̼͓̼̯͖̥̻̹̐̎̏̅̽̽͆͆̅̆̑͑̅̈̕v̶̡̧̢̘͍͍̤̪͔̟̗̰͈͍̥͎͓͓̱͙͙͚͈̪̜̺̳̠̳̱̝͔͙̬̰̩̞̯͔̰̮̞̪̝̘͕̾̀͗͛̎͠ę̵̲̝̞̘̹̞̯̙̯̪̟̙̝̤̺̻̩͓̖͋̑̅̅̍̾͑̈́͆̿͐͘̕ͅr̷̢̡̨̡͉̳̟͎̲̱̰̤̤̯̱̜͕͖̱̱͇̫̟̟̺̪̤̥̘̤̰͕͔̦̪͕͕̭̯̥̜͇̪̗̝̆͒̂̈́̇̑̿̿̂̃͆̄̊̐̽̊̊̇̃̔̽̌̾̎̈̽͆̇̈̃͊̒̓̈́̊̽̒̓̌̈͛̆̓̈́̿͌̚̕͠͝ͅͅ ̸̧̨̡̧͓̰̖̰͔̝͔̼̭͔͙̗͉̤̰̰̭̩̠͉̹̠̰̗̳̜̺̩͎̰̣̤́̂̾͊̾͜͜ͅm̶̧̛̛͇̫̘̣̮̲͕̙͍̞̬̫͕̝͙̀͆́̓͂̆̌̌̀̉͑̇̄̓̀͒͌̎̄̿̓̓͂̈̀̃̊̆͗͆̈́͌̅͐̈́̅̚̚̚͜͝͝i̶̛̛͕̖͉͎̜͓̻̟̹͈̹̰̦̼͖͇̩͖̱͔̥̬̫̳̦̪͈͖͋̓͗̄͛̈̓̍̍̓͂̇͛͆̒̒͒̅͆͌͑͗͑̄͌͋̀̈́̇͛̇͛͋͂̂̈́̉̍̉̆͘̕͘͜͜͝͝͝n̷̯̠͍̊͋̎̒̍͋̋̉̚ě̸̢̧̨̡̖̺̜͈̬͉͇̺͍͉͙̱͚͉̝̗̥̭͉̜͕̝̗̩̱̼̲͍̜̦̠͓̖̫͙͚̫̜̞̞͐̎͆̋̉̅͌͆̚͝͠ͅ

 

The whispers are louder now, directly _vibrating_ through him, part of him, and his consciousness stretches wider, encompasses more than his body as he gets fucked over and over, more tendrils curling around him into an embrace, their touches like cold kisses against the furnace that’s his core, and Zenyatta gives himself up, again and again, without an end.

Pleasure crests again, takes him down with it in a swirl of green that is becoming brighter and stronger.

The blinking eyes in the outer rims, just out of sight, draw closer, observe, gather around him, even as Zenyatta is unaware of anything that isn’t the pleasure he’s in, beautifully spread and taken over and over–

Again, pleasure steals him away, robs him again, and then once more, and repeats.

When he finally offlines, his brain fizzling for too much raw input, well fucked in an endless cycle, it is not darkness that welcomes him, but a green nothingness, glowing softly as it embraces him, and Zenyatta lets go, and falls deeper.

The gold swirls once, then twice, around him, and vanishes.

***

Zenyatta awakens slowly.

His consciousness returns to him gradually, like he’s been sleeping for centuries, and as he wakes, he feels himself again, and fumbles with his shell.

His frame feels almost too big around him, then too small, his chassis constrictive, the servos clumsy, like he has to learn to use them again. Like he’s born anew.

Surrounding him are golden, flickering tentacles of light, basking him in the aura of the Iris, just as welcoming and warm as before, but now perhaps a touch too hot.

His chassis feels warm, but not uncomfortably so, the heat a constant from within.

Slowly, he uncurls, and the tentacles unwrap from around him, their embrace leaving behind an impression of light. They don’t disappear, simply retreat enough that he can move, find himself again, but wait, patiently, for him to stretch.

Even more slowly, Zenyatta floats down, and touches the floor with his feet.

He is still in the same room where he started his meditation session, but so much has changed, and he takes a few seconds to reassess himself.

The golden tendrils caress down the curve of his back, then to his mouth piece, and the tentacles that are now part of him respond in kind, wriggling in welcome at the gentle nudge, purple and translucent gold mixing together before letting go.

He feels… stronger.

He stretches, arms moving to the side as he forms his usual stance, and his body answers readily. There is no trace of exhaustion, but his body remembers, keenly, the feeling of Their tentacles sliding inside him, filling him, taking him and giving him pleasure, and Zenyatta shivers at the reminder.

For a split second, the golden transcendent tentacles glow green before flickering back to their normal colour, and Zenyatta feels…

Complete.

With a flourish of his arm, he calls his orbs back to himself, and they readily answer, glowing green eyes flickering around the room, observing, sending extra data to his brain to process that his normal optical receptors could not catch.

He has changed.

They have changed him, to reflect his newfound place within the Iris. He is whole now.

His consciousness expands, reassured to find the Iris’ presence just as strong within him as it was before, but now different, shifted to something cooler, that soothes the ever present warmth he feels alongside his frame.

Observing the new appearance of his chassis, Zenyatta’s forehead array burns green underneath his new hood, and the tentacles covering his mouth piece wriggle happily.

He is One with The Iris, he is One with Them.

In time, others will join, and find the same joy he’s felt.

For now, Zenyatta relishes in his new, acquired knowledge, stretches his legs, and prepares to leave the privacy of his room.

He has someone to find, now.

The Iris wills it, and the whispers beckon him on.

 


End file.
